Tree high in the humid dark we scrumped
forbidden fruit, fingered through night-leaves
for fat, green globes, stretched for big ones that weighed
the tips low. A tweak and they snapped clean, came plump
and cool into the cupped hand – each one precious,
every one ours. We stripped the top limbs first,
picked towards ground, slid fruit after fruit
down the necks of our ragged jerseys, to be trapped
at the waist by tight string tourniquets.
Under a faint rustling of leaves we thieved
in the still night, (gagging each nervous cuss
and giggle as bent boughs lifted, unburdened, bare)
thumbs and fingers sticky with stem-sap,
intoxicated by the apple-perfumed air.
We slumped to ground, heavy with apples, cloaked
ourselves in shadow under the orchard wall;
went down on our bare knees in the dark grass –
untying string, we loosed the fragrant haul,
heaped emerald plunder between us.
The fruit you chose appeared too big for the grasp
of your small hands; you bit through skin, crisp flesh
thirsty for juices, but cringed and almost choked
at the bitter taste. Then the bright flick
that freeze-framed us in lurid light – loud thunder
and the first fat drops heavy as lead-grain
splattering leaves – the Big Man’s roar of anger –
and we were running, you ahead, your hip-
length hair glistening in the quickening rain…