MK Lit

~

Plenty

ripening apples hang heavily

a mellowing shine like that

of red festive baubles, 

underneath the tree

Mavis and her piglet brood 

noisily chomp windfalls 

and acorns without a care,

golden corn freshly cut and strung

stands idly waiting for the stacks,

in busy kitchens hedgerow fruits 

are bottled for sloe and damson

wines for chilly winter nights,

allotments, rod pole and perch

give up their prize vegetable bounty 

from weeks of back breaking toil,

schoolchildren rehearse joyous

harvest hymns and make ready

hampers to carry to their church,

thus, with pantries full, bellies too,

we give thanks for such riches

*

Escape Room

from the air, it seems

giant swine might well 

inhabit there,

a silver curved corrugated 

hood, with one foot firmly

sunken into the mud,

but no porcine lethargy 

is found within, judging by 

the incessant raucous din, 

as myriad ant-like people 

scurry to-and-fro, 

 to frolic down a man made 

hill of snow,

in sheer ecstasy they emit

ecstatic toboggan squeals

and refuel after on soft drinks, 

beer and fast-food meals,

it’s a leisure palace, a wild

exciting winter ride, 

a chilly two degrees below 

while bright sunshine beams outside

*

Braeburn

there’s a place 

I often pass, where 

a half-eaten apple core,

the remnants 

of a hasty lunch, 

wantonly tossed from

the window of a passing 

car, has taken root,

 left ten years undisturbed, 

lying buried beneath 

myriad roadside detritus,

 today, on an uncut verge 

 beside the busy A422, 

a perfectly shaped

magnificent Braeburn 

stands laden with plump 

ripe fruit, never harvested, 

a proud crimson beacon 

of accidental recycling

 amongst the dowdy bracken

*