Tuesday, 17 November 2009


An apple blossom, fertilised,
Draws moisture from the tree and joins
Cell upon cell while it burgeons
As its genes' plan is realised.

Daily the fruit becomes more lush
Allowing potent sap to fill
Its body forth with good until
The sun imparts its ripened flush.

To satiate my taste and needs
I grasp the fruit and relish flesh
Making my tongue and palate fresh,
But find no virtue in the seeds.

Her body ripened to be born,
But if God chose to pluck that fruit
We have no title to dispute
The deed that left our hearts forlorn.

1 comment:

  1. the sweetest apples i have been told are at the top of the tree closest to the sun and now that little darling is as close as she ever will be to the son...she is right there in his arms and safe in his loving bosom.
    i really don't understand though how a mother or father could really stand it...i really don't!
    i think that the lord must be really close to them at a time like this.
    this is such a lovely poem about baby marina!
    from terry


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