apple picking

Grey lichen-covered apple tree branches.
Chest-high stinging nettles test trouser legs.
At least I remembered some old trainers.
A couple of old plastic crates, ladder,
two long-reach pickers with the orchard's name,
and off we went.

What a beautiful morning, I envy
the warden his snug environmental
shelf-lined house - he lives here among
badgers, butterflies, wasps and look straight up
a buzzard hovering high in the sky.

No sprays on these apples - unlike those Kurds.
Joe plonked his ladder under the branches,
well, from far off the apples had looked nice.
Unlike Saddam, or his prisoners, Joe
climbed down, strode off to try somewhere else.

We walked round the huge pond. No bodies floating.
Two woodpeckers rattled out, so Joe said.
He pointed, but it was into the sun.

We were lucky ones, with a picker each.
That mother and little boy over there,
he jumping to reach some little fruit.
So Joe gave them his picker and ladder
- with a 'well, you use the picker like this'.
You can bet it's not like that in Dafur.

After a look at some wild flowers, rabbits,
and lottery-funded hide for badgers,
someone called it was time for coffee,
so we joined the little band by the cars,
a large pot of tea, milk in a jug,
mixed Fox's biscuits out of the packet.

We'd only picked two boxes of apples,
Michael said the Bramleys were good.
Joan and Lily made back for the pears,
and there was a Red Admiral by the wall.

As we packed up, Joe said Lewis Hamilton
had grown up nearby. We were quite surprised
we both followed Formula One racing.
That's another Sunday morning ticked off.
Nothing much there to write home about.