Bottling Apples

She dreamt they were apple picking
under the gnarled apple tree.
Her children barefoot, brown as earth,
draw down the sky,
dip their fingers in its deep pool
to pluck fruit green as stars.

Later she will sort what they
have gathered in their white basins,
pare the whelk-shaped ring,
core and trim where wasps have buried
striped abdomens into the sweet flesh.

Each action careful, measured
as her sugar scoops she cuts and chops,
skims the foaming scum like skin from a wound
and into the clear jars, sealed with was
for preservation, she carefully pours her face.

Content and Poetry © Sue Hubbard 1999
Images maybe subject to copyright


The International Association of Art Critics
© 2013 Sue Hubbard