The Orchard
by Theodora Goss

I found a secret orchard at Kew,
hidden away from the crowds,
an orchard with only eight apple trees
and me, and one magpie.

It dated, the sign said, back to the time
of King George III, the one
who went mad—I assume you know the story
or could look it up.

But I could not be sad in that orchard—
the trees were great company,
and the magpie, of course, and whatever birds
were chattering in the trees.

It was the end of May, so the apples
were not yet ripe. They hung
like hard green balls the size of marbles
the branches among.

And I wished that I could stay until autumn
to see them ripen and taste
their antique flavors—the Orange Pippin,
the Tower of Glamis, the Winter Banana,
the Killerton Sweet.

Just me and the magpie and a single foxglove
that had somehow seeded itself
under the tree labeled Tower of Glamis
(like something symbolic out of Shakespeare)
and the clatter of birdsong and distant tourists
and a single airplane that passed overhead
and what I could hear if I listened closely,
sitting there in the dappled sunshine—
the silence beneath.

(The image is Under the Apple Tree by Bessie MacNicol.)