Butleigh - Harvest
Different apples on streets of trees
Red and green blowing in the breeze
Sky is blue, long grass is green
Apples never to be seen
Carpets of apples in long grass
Waiting for the machine to pass
We think there's sixty tons of apples
Different types, even dappled.
-- Johnny Edmondson --


Carpets of apples disappear
Our feel of loss is really quite sheer
Love which is lost is loved much more
Each apple is eaten right down to the core
By horses, by cattle by people by sheep
An apple fills my belly before I go to sleep
-- Julia Sheills --


1,000 apples or more
Ready waiting in the store
Waiting for the bag to be
Poured into the machinery

Lying waiting for my death
My life will be from me theft
Then I am cut into little pieces
Its seems the squishing never ceases

Sharp knives stab me
Now I am in a sheep's belly
The path begins to bend
I am out of a sheep's back end

Then after 20 years or so
A nice tree begins to grow
And on this lovely tree
Is a slightly newer me.

Then I am picked by some men
And put in sack to eat again
That is the life of me
An apple from an apple tree.
-- Annabel Dukes. --


Group Poems
Different apples on streets of trees
Carpets of apples
Crunching under my feet
Apples red, sour and sweet
Fit for all of us to eat
Rosy red apples
Waiting for its time to fall
Apples tempting, must have more
Falling bouncing once
Blue skies shining, reflecting
Apples cuddling the grass and bedding down
Bitter sweet and sour
Grass littered with apples
Apples red and apples green
Ever so sweet and ever so clean
Waves of apples like the tide
Apples falling like parachutes
I am the seed that grows the tree
That grows the apple
That grows me.
Pip Pip Hooray !
The sweet taste of Spartan in your mouth,
The farmers putting the apples in the tub,
The carpet of pomace in the wheel barrow.

The barrels of cider in the back room
And also the perry calm and still
All the cider eventually goes into the shop
-- Jack Tucker --


Mine's rubbish
As I click my fingers
Dabinett sweet and sour
Apples falling by the hour
Apples swaying side to side
Waves of apples like the tide
That's all
-- Alfie Lee. --


Hi I'm the pip
Called Pippa
Sigh. Nobody likes me
They throw me away
But then again
I am the one who makes the tree
But I'm never used,
Like the tree itself
Sheep's respect it,
Scratch them selves on it
Wait a moment
Someone is pressing
My apple, my house
My beautiful rosy red house
But somehow I'm relieved
I am tasteless
So they won't press me anyway
Pip Pip Hooray
-- Julia Sheills --



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