Wasps in the crab apples.

 
Some of the trees,
are already turning,
to that copper and bold,
that defies time.
 
Bouncing on the wet pavement,
an abundance of string conquerors,
fit as Foucault's pendulum,
in the smooth hands,
of small playground boys.
 
Old age silently,
trolleys round the shed supermarket;
a half pound of salted, own brand butter,
says it's made in the family farmhouse,
just another super dairy,
that Dysons up its subsidy
and hates beggars on the giro.
 
Their is no apple ducking,
or mature whiskey tasting sessions;
the only thing that's talked to you this day,
is the automatic till.
 
It sings "your armchair is old,
treat yourself to a new one"
you hang on to such thoughts.
 
The old beech in its showering glory,
proclaims the November celebrations,
the pomegranates and the fireworks to come;
women chatter and laugh,
in the warm fire pub.
 
They are releasing political prisoners in Iran,
upgrade your chips to,
thick gourmet chips £1;
their is an abundance of blackberries.

~