Fruit Picker – A Poem

I walk around my village

With my fruit picker,

When the sky begins to darken

And I see the street lamp flicker.

 

I make my way to my neighbour’s orchard

Where I hope to find an apple.

I pass the church, the pub, the school

And the graveyard of the old chapel.

 

I reach the wall that surrounds the trees,

It’s only as high as my waist.

I spy several ripe, crunchy apples inside

And just can’t wait to have a taste!

 

I whip out my handy fruit picker

And lean precariously over the wall.

Flick, flick goes my wrist,

I’m a bit off balance, I hope I don’t fall!

 

I’m slower than usual tonight,

I need to pick quicker, quicker.

I don’t want to have to resort to

Buying even one with a supermarket sticker!

 

I actually have an orchard of my own,

But all the fruit is hard and bitter.

The skins on these are irresistably crisp

Whereas on mine they are a lot thicker.

 

Pick, pick, pick

That should do the trick!

My fruit picker’s full the the brim,

No more need for me to nick, nick!

 

I tip the contents inside

My basket made of wicker,

Which I cover with a big tea towel

To also hide my fruit picker.

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