Sometimes I think the orchard
holds a spirit. Her bright presence
moving between the trees:
in spring, she brings the scent
of apple blossom, almost there,
and then in autumn she quickens
each fruit, makes it sweeter.
I’m fanciful. That’s my defence.
De (Whimsygizmo) is tending the bar tonight. It’s quadrille night at the dVerse poets’ pub, and we are using the word “spirit”.
Before this final flurry of winter, I was starting to imagine a faint haze of green over the hedgerows, a softening of the winterdark of the bare twigs. It won’t be long before that green is definite, and spring starts unfurling and stretching out across the landscape.
Three weeks ago we planted two new apple trees, grafts from our old Bramley. One went in behind the barn, and one on the steep part of the field. Over the last few days we’ve had winds from the Baltic, temperatures dropping down well below zero, snow, and freezing rain. It’s a hard time to be an orchardist. Robert Frost’s been sitting on my shoulder, as his namesake stalks my orchard. If those tiny buds are lost or damaged, there’ll be no crop worth speaking of this year. All I can do is wait, and hope, and trust.
I can’t protect you
You choose your time to open
Tree-bud, small but strong
A haibun for Haibun Monday at dVerse. We are asked to consider tree-buds, and the powerful metaphors they bring with them. Thank you, Victoria, for a lovely prompt.