Yesterday they planted you —
Scattered your grey seeds
In black earth, sinking
Silence into dry soil,
Of white roots and sprouting
Pips; the cored heart of the apple.
Now you are twisting milk-skinned life out
Of the darkness, spreading,
As the wind shaking
Hands with the long, wet grass.
They planted you a year ago —
How many eyes have grazed your
Sometimes, shamefaced, I forget the date.
I consult my almanack; tomorrow will be
Palm day, fig Sunday. A good day
We make the red dirt richer, ready.
Soon it will be planting time.
Phyllida lives in London, where she is studying English literature. She can be found wherever coffee is sold.