| From the East The apple was a world. I gripped it in my hand, turned fourteen to spring’s cold and tidy house, its maps of vein its flush of seas its first fine wrinkles but it must be eaten the seed torn open so it flies, unearthly flower, rooted in the orchard night, the western skies. Huge and white, whole winter’s fruit, Jupiter and Venus rise. Alison Brackenbury |
If you have any comments on this poem,
Alison Brackenbury would be
pleased
to hear them
