The winter wind whips at our hands and faces
The dull grey sky looms low overhead
But there's a reason why we are here
Something special is in the orchard, something beautiful
Something older than you and me but yet young and fiery.
We are not here for the fresh air or exercise
We've come to see the trees of the orchard
Stripped of their leaves and apples
But still standing strong with pride.
The only colour comes from the grass and the twining ivy
Covering the tree like a full head of shaggy hair
Daffodils bloom, butter cups twinkle
This dull place is teeming with life gearing up for spring.
A blanket of sleep thrown haphazardly
Over the weary orchard.
Silence now, but for the soft rustling
Of the wind against the fresh green grass.
One chestnut horse lingers in the corner
Of the otherwise empty orchard
He looks not quite sure that he should be there
But he is waiting for something
Perhaps a cataclysm to occur
Soft yellow primroses bloom in the stillness.
A harsh grey wind whips about my hair
And through my fingers.
Next season the orchard
Will be buzzing with life and vigour
But for now a still mist
Drifts into place and time stops.
Ivy twists itself around the flying branches of the trees
The lush green ground littered with sun-bright flowers
Wind whistles around the grass singing its silent song
Auburn, brown, apples sit on the wavering grass
Trees branches twist and turn like they never end
A cockerel sings its good morning song
While a silent horse, chestnut, brown,
Moves slowly through the grass
Ears pricked and tail down-hanging.
The air piercing cold
No jumper of rainbow leaves for the trees
Rain drops gather on the petals of each and every flower
Twitters of the birds fill the air with joy
Remembering last year's summer.
The coming of spring
The wind whistling in my ears
The cold breeze brushing against my face
Daffodils blooming, primroses bright
Thorns crawling over my feet
Winding ivy climbing the trees
Mossy banks of grass to sit on
The cockerel crows to the dawn of spring.
Aubergine and mustard green
A horse in the orchard
A strange place to be
With no one to see.
The horse and the grass
No apples to eat
What makes him happy
Or stand on his feet
He looks with his eyes
Into the trees
A forest of colours
Aubergine and mustard green
The tree diary
Sept 23rd 2002
The apples are flocking off the trees
Like sheep in a field at feeding time.
All my growing, all my hard work
For nothing. The humans just take our apples,
With no respect. They don't listen
And it's too busy. Too busy.
March 3rd 2003
The trees are dull. The sky is dull
The orchard is dull.
No one has worked on us like they used to
I wish it was October when I was loved and known
As the biggest and best apple producer.
But now I am just a tree. Now I'm dull.
April 29th 2003
My pink blossom has grown
And overloaded out of my fingers
My beautiful blossom shimmers
In the new spring sky of many colours
As the orchard re grows.
The orchard is becoming alive again.
June 11th 2003
My blossom is now buds.
My buds will be apples
August 20th 2003
My apples will be cider
And once again I will be used
The good old days.
September 23rd 2003
What was I thinking
Looking forward to the cider season
It's horrible. Non stop apple picking
It seems apple picking has reared
Its hideous head again.
This is hell on earth.
March 3rd 2004
I miss the attention....