Orchard End, or The Laboratory of Continuous Effort

An apple tree bent double with fruit

grew in the middle of the living room

shaking gently

as the average family pootled by with plates

or devices in their hands

The room was almost all tree

everyone edged round it

Curiously no one picked a single apple

nor did the ripe fruit ever fall

The full tree stood there

a daemon to behold

Who lives in that house now

I can’t tell you

My childhood lives on there

and my parent shadows

and all my days and nights that will never bear fruit

The apple tree I speak of

roots itself partly in truth and partly in lies

Those roots are splinters of the true cross

They alone know why miracles are best avoided