They soon rot. But the shed where they've been heaped
stays upright for a hundred, two hundred years.
Our forebears plod in and out or, lulled to heavy-headedness
in that twilight, forget themselves and their errands
before coming to, fields away, one arm long as the other –
Van Winkles in hobnail boots and shabby coats
levelling at the gable their half-abashed curses. Until, through
trick or treat of seasons, the shed achieves disuse
and the curiously commonplace status of appearing invisible.
Nettles and ivy prosper; purple-stemmed briars
sway sharp-thorned across the slates. A hungry stranger
narrows one eye, sees things beyond things. His
bulldozer clunks and clangs – the stonework suddenly gives.
The unregarded seeds, thrown to frost and rain,
astonish him and us by sending up shoots. Wild apples,
on that account liable to stray from the character
of the parent. Still – progeny of an extinct breed – the cuttings
are sheeted in misty plastic and kid-gloved away
to a more favourable environment. We get no word back
of their propagation, but here the rough ground
swells, branching and blossoming and fructifying until a grove
of Hesperus develops. Patched ruddy and green,
the apples' meagre size is compensated for by their abundance
and the zesty, unsullied flavour that tangs and tingles
our taste buds. We hesitate only about swallowing the pips.

Patrick Deeley's new collection, Groundswell: New and Selected Poems, will be published by Dedalus Press in April