Richard Stewart
The Waiting Game
Every year he pruned the trees,
Apples, two of them, on opposite
Sides of the swept concrete path
That ran straight down to the bottom
Of his small suburban garden,
Pruned them hard, tight to the branches
As part of a neat conformity.
When he died before the ritual
They made a frenzy of blossom
That pumped up lustrous green apples
Glowing unpicked on the summer boughs
Until, crimson heavy with fulfilment,
They dropped to the bright wild weeds
Already carpeting the untilled soil.
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