Giles Dawnay is a writer, poet and GP in Herefordshire. His website is: www.gilesdawnay.com
Our apples have gone, hanging
there yesterday, succulent red
swaying without care nor worry.
A daily wonder that anything
could grow in such a garden.
Supple branches now caress
nothing but silence. The unseen
world begins again its alchemy
of creation. Perhaps a canny fox,
perhaps mystery, rationality’s thief.
My patient too is gone,* taken by forces
we may never understand. Last month
shaking bravely in the wind while gravity
pulled at her core. Repeated nuclear
internal assaults, yet the crab advanced.
Now all her leaves have fallen, one last
season. Is it the toppling that haunts,
or rootless hole, that open earthy ulcer
that replaces a gentle rustling of breath
and leaf. Do the seasons feel any pity
on their march for growth and change.
Does the fruit of living know its destiny,
to be consumed or become compost.
How life breathes on in both flavour and
seed, no matter how quiet the departure.
Deputy Editor’s note. This poem does not relate to any particular patient seen by the author in a clinical setting
Featured Photo: Holly berries in winter, by Andrew Papanikitas 2024
