If nothing else it was a good year for apples
at Auchamore Road.
The apples multiplied daily like protesters
outside a corrupt parliament.
The apples are now ready, an invisible jay
is singing to them. His voice entrances me
like the sound of planets moving in space.
Share an apple with me –
you have the green half, I’ll have the red.
Let our lips meet in the middle.
The apples have come from my very own garden.
I watched them grow and then with a twist
freed them from the arm of the tree.
They glow in a bowl in my kitchen,
silky skinned, they appeared suddenly.
A song of apples – each one holds its own note,
has its own key.
The bowl brings them together, a garden harmony –
the sound of the rowan, jackdaw, pigeon.
When I bite into one, your lips meet me.
Your eyes, dark seeds.
When I eat an apple I taste your lips –
earthy and sweet.
I’ve taken to wearing silver hearts
and dreaming of silver apples.
In my dream I gather them, hold them
in my hands. They have grown for me,
the garden gifts them to me.
When I peel an apple, its skin falls in letters
at my feet and it speaks to me –
apple of my tree.
© Marion McCready
Picture 10438415, illustration by Julie Wolfthorn in Jugend, September 1898, image copyright Mary Evans
Marion McCready lives in Dunoon, Argyll. She won a Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award in 2013 and the Melita Hume Poetry Prize for her first full-length collection Tree Language which was published by Eyewear Publishing in 2014. Her second collection Madame Ecosse was published in 2017 also by Eyewear Publishing.