The Ungathered Pome.

Through the moonlit orchard, ghostly, passed a cohort

quiet mostly, but for bridled horses snorting

and a phaeton’s lines, unspoken. In the loaming,                                                                                                     

apples, gallowed, tarnished silver, in the branches,

shivered in that haunted gloam; the ungathered pome.


Shadows rushed the walls and ceiling of my chamber,

causing flame and furniture and feature to rear

and I, framed in the mirror, briefly, to appear,

naked, passing to the window, beckoned, bare,

entranced, sleepy, to gaze this phantom entourage.                    


I wondered their visions trading off the breeze

and, framed within this glassy plane, these shadowed trees,

gathered, glistening in the dappled, moonlit leaves,

enough for this poem, or the coming morning’s meal;

should it ever happen to fall upon my sill.

12 thoughts on “The Ungathered Pome.

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