Summertime on the Isle of Avalon

Petals veined like skin will rain when honey bees fly hive-home.

Summer’s shadows cast by leaves hide boney branches hold

Globed fruits, green and naïve, ripen into wisdom.

Sun’s bright streams reflect their red and gold.

Let’s pick? Do worms infest? Bruised or

Windborne? Rotten or sweet, equal - the same.

All have purpose, holding promise at core.

The monks squeeze hard and apples to cider came.

No celestial law forbids, the Abbot had read,

As summer sun shines in old eyes again.

Monks quaff their cups empty, cheeks apple red.

Till time came and old bones in orchard lain.

Monks buried beneath, sweet apples above,

No wonder the Abbey’s cider was good.

They sure knew how to recycle in those days.