Windfallen
My word
that view was something
wasn’t it
Something else entirely
where other
might one ponder and for
so very long and free
Gazing on
these orchard fields
where row pon row
of England’s
most finest
both do grow and yield
each fresh harvest
Tis here
I might just lay
at least until the morrow
with scent of fallen
bruised and weeping fruit
all about n laid
mid bramble and bracken
Windfallen,
both russet and gold
my word, tis such a heady pillow
Now sorely needed
on which to drown
one’s immeasurable sorrow …