“hello” she says
“I’m just going for a quick run”
my creaky body
a kiss on both cheeks
wet leaves and beech mast
in the hotel foyer
what is it with spiders?
their webs
my height
twenty big men
in black T-shirts
world experts
pressing apples
“it’s not natural” she says
“freezing your eggs”
the library
a white van
full of Cornish pasties
one kind of luck
or another
crows in a tree
odd thoughts and socks
suddenly make sense
ash leaves turn yellow first
and stay on the tree
pregnant again
Marta tells of her cravings
sending her husband out
for red apples
a late bee
lands on an ivy flower
brown oak leaves
in still flowering borage
the mould
on an English walnut
can kill you
medlars on a branch
their astringency
under the ginkgo
l look up through yellow fans
satisfying snaps
as they come off the branch
china in my head
leaf veins
red on green
sycamore
the leaves
I collected for tomorrow
breathe in their bags
squirreled memories
losing myself
in a walnut whip
crossing
the brave new alps
humans and nature
precarious workplaces
before the lecture
a few crisps and a wine
to soften us up
wondering why there
are more men at the lecture
than on the walk
touching the iceberg
just what’s going on
below the surface?
the arts council
doesn’t seem relevant
falling leaves
abundance
what’s the exchange rate
for apples?
somewhere
over bat alley hedge
the sound of a strimmer
calling
the wrong number
magic mushrooms
just one gull
on the quidditch pitch
long shadows
security barrier
she picks a small
but very red apple
re-finding my health
and efficiency garden
weeds and geraniums
raking leaves
we discuss the flight
of sycamore seeds
glorious gluts
jars of this and that chutney
all round the house
he tells me
he’s changed his pink shoes
to stop them getting dirty
the midwife
of the orchard
156 fruit trees
asked to play
his accordion
he says it’s not
his accordion
the tune the tune
entry points
the nervousness of an edge
planted with love
a campus
that just keeps growing
how long does a fruit tree live?
not the kind of thing
you can pick up from a book
poisonous mushroom
200 instruments
from all over the world
and a yurt
footballs crashing
against a metal fence
sweet chestnuts
her dog sits patiently
through the artist’s talk
cross pollination
the pump and tap
the rum runner
a railway arch
wait don’t brush
she ain’t heavy
she’s my spider
Paul Conneally
Harvest Renga 2018
Fruit Routes Poet