Just in time. [Nature/atmosphere/nostalgia]
The Weather lady broke the news with a graveness not often seen. A storm on the horizon.
Trawlers tying up, farmers battening down.
Out in my Mother's garden, surrounded by adoring roses, a full and plenty apple tree sits in the last of the sunshine. Waiting for the ritual. It'll be dark in an hour. Winter dark. The ground will then go soft for the hard haul ahead. Dew, deluge and day-long-dusk are in the post. Now or never.
But the tree is a true leviathan. Untamed for half a century. At top-most point sit red crab-apples as big and rosy as a teething infant's head. These apples are offerings to the Gods of Autumn. Windfalls from twenty feet up. Their last act will be breaking free in a torment of sky and leaving a real divot where they land.
But of the others? Like a disaster being averted, all hands are on deck. Thick cardboard boxes (to hold a grunting weight) lie on the lawn. Our family scurry to catch fruit tapped off branches. A "Watch out!" followed by children scurrying under the tree to retrieve the firm bounty. Wonderful rumblings from above, accompanied by the 'oohs and 'aahs' of those to whom this show still has novelty.
The good treasures are then boxed. Split or spoiled, bird-scooped fruit is thrown aside to compost. And gradually the boxes fill towards twilight as the young souls tire in direct proportion. From up on the ladder the tree looks relieved. Of fruit and weight and a Summer's work.
Over the wall to the west, neon strip-lights of pink and ochre wink through busy windmills and seem to say goodnight. Or adieu. Or at least..."Until next year!" Tired children wander home, delivering a box of apples along the way. Magic will create pies from them by tomorrow. Stewed apples enriched with sugar will soon be on the stove.
Outside the wind will lick the roof-slates and pummel the tree branches but find little to bully.
Trawlers tying up, farmers battening down.
Out in my Mother's garden, surrounded by adoring roses, a full and plenty apple tree sits in the last of the sunshine. Waiting for the ritual. It'll be dark in an hour. Winter dark. The ground will then go soft for the hard haul ahead. Dew, deluge and day-long-dusk are in the post. Now or never.
But the tree is a true leviathan. Untamed for half a century. At top-most point sit red crab-apples as big and rosy as a teething infant's head. These apples are offerings to the Gods of Autumn. Windfalls from twenty feet up. Their last act will be breaking free in a torment of sky and leaving a real divot where they land.
But of the others? Like a disaster being averted, all hands are on deck. Thick cardboard boxes (to hold a grunting weight) lie on the lawn. Our family scurry to catch fruit tapped off branches. A "Watch out!" followed by children scurrying under the tree to retrieve the firm bounty. Wonderful rumblings from above, accompanied by the 'oohs and 'aahs' of those to whom this show still has novelty.
The good treasures are then boxed. Split or spoiled, bird-scooped fruit is thrown aside to compost. And gradually the boxes fill towards twilight as the young souls tire in direct proportion. From up on the ladder the tree looks relieved. Of fruit and weight and a Summer's work.
Over the wall to the west, neon strip-lights of pink and ochre wink through busy windmills and seem to say goodnight. Or adieu. Or at least..."Until next year!" Tired children wander home, delivering a box of apples along the way. Magic will create pies from them by tomorrow. Stewed apples enriched with sugar will soon be on the stove.
Outside the wind will lick the roof-slates and pummel the tree branches but find little to bully.
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