This is a poem I wrote that expresses my discovery of European cider. Malus, by the way, is the genus that apple belongs to.
On that London Park Bench
Alone, on that London Park Bench
She sat down next to me
In her splendid red coat, with green lapels
Streaked with yellow.
She said she saw me from her bakery
And I noticed flour on her apron.
I looked into her dark languid eyes.
Mirrors of antiquity.
Her voice soft and familiar,
Echoed from distant lands.
Behind us
An ancient apple tree
Stretched up to catch the sky.
A lone apple hung
And dewdrops sparkled in the autumn sun
Like tiny chandeliers.
While at our feet
A carpet of leaves
Rustled in the wind.
She inched closer
And whispered her name, Malus,
As she reached up and kissed me.
I tasted her parting lips, crisp
Tart fruit;
a softness in the middle of the tongue.
Saliva warmed a gentle fire,
A taste of pure desire.
My eyes closed,
A delicate mist
Of green perfume
Lingered over me.
And Malus stayed with me all my life
Though I don’t know where she went.
Ronald Irvine
February 7, 2008
