Fallen Apples

The crack of dawn bells that

Startled me from sleep were

Far bigger, more alarming

Than they needed to be;

But set me on a mission:

Could I revisit my younger days?

A fox cub, sniffing fallen apples

Couldn’t understand; the

Stag nowhere to be seen,

Though the October bronzed oak

Stood its corner proudly

In bigger, harsher stubble fields.

A part-blind pony listened patiently

But could offer only a toss of the head

And sympathy.

The lane to old education is overgrown

And a discarded Playboy lady, damp

From a night in the ditch

Failed to excite while a

Senseless robin in mist scarfed laburnum

Threw a threadbare tune at a

Bored, farmyard cat.

And the lady in the house,

Who might have helped

Was only concerned that

The hearth was cleaned again.

Glorious rising sun left me wondering:

If the butterfly could speak

To the caterpillar …

What, exactly would it say?

… and, why would the caterpillar listen anyway?