So, here is another poem from our trip to Dorset, when we stayed in this beautiful, remote National Trust cottage.  Like most of the poems, the extraordinary weather plays a part.  This time, the powerful winds and sudden gusts of the remains of Hurricane Ophelia brought an end to the moral dither I was in about apples.

There were many glorious and very ancient apple trees, which presumably were owned by the National Trust, being on their land.  However, it was so remote down our lanes that it was hardly surprising that no-one was gathering them.  I could gather them. Whether or not I had a right to, I was unsure.   On the other hand, to let so much food go to waste is another kind of crime.  Food use versus property rights.  I knew what I thought of that particular tussle, but only acted when Ophelia swept along, and swept the fruit off the trees.

The apples really were delicious!

Scrumping in a hurricane

So, here are the old apple trees,
behind a wall of warm stone.
Their branches, their trunks,
are gnarley and twisted,
some drip grey with lichen,
all are heavy with fruit.

They belong to the old manor
where we stay,
a remnant of an ancient hamlet.
So, do they belong to us,
here as we are
for only a few days?

The smell drifts over the wall,
sweet, you can taste the juice
in your mouth.
The apples lie in red,
extravagant heaps in
the long grass.
No one comes to gather them.

And then, storm warnings shake
the branches,
and then, the skirts of the
hurricane brush the hillside,
and as the apples fall,
I go and gather them,
enough for us while we
are here,
and peel them as the
juice flows over my hands,
and cook them with the blackberries
that whip across the path

And eat.  What are they?
No varieties I know,
but they are good, so good,
and good the next day
in porridge,
and good the day after
cold, and purple,
and sweet.