Lorca wrote a poem, apples bruising the fields.
Like Heaney’s blackberries.
I walked away from you, apples for sale at the market
Ornaments from the mystery of trees
Chosen from the new orchards they planted that morning
Having been reached-for, glimmering.
The end of a season pacing in the wind in the trees
Circles of sweetness spun from air, never taking foot
The feeling that things were visible elsewhere.
Nicely done!
Thanks, glad you liked it.
A good poem; your use of imagery works well.
Thanks, Bill.