“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


the leaves

I collected for tomorrow

breathe in their bags

squirreled memories

losing myself

in a walnut whip


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


what’s the exchange rate

for apples?


over bat alley hedge

the sound of a strimmer


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