The Forgotten Orchard of Craiglockhart
The trees rose from the grass,
poking their years fruit towards me.
Crab; Bramley; Dabinnett and Tremlett;
the booty of a hard Scottish year.
Not the hardest though.
Years before, Angus the shell-shocked
and Dougie the fruit loop
had collected these apples,
just as I do.
Branches shake,
trunks tremble -
missiles of red and green
blur
and tumble
and cascade,
this treasure that had calmed the insane
was golden
and bright.
It tasted of hope
on a September afternoon.
The tenements to the east,
like dungeons
loomed.
