applesteamdream


Applesteam in Word

Applesteam

By the river, twenty yards to the other shore, high trees and grass of many shades fill my horizon,

A trickling stream on my left cascades to the river’s edge, like excited children running to join their parents. 

River bed clear to see, waters circle the smooth protruding rocks while sticklebacks scurry around their base jabbing about like darts.

Hypnotized by my view, a view 40 winters past, my memory paints a perfect picture.

I spin on my heals – leap and skip as my young legs once allowed towards my country house, whitewashed stone, small windowed but large is the door, hard to push.

Behind the door, I stand wide eyed in the dimly room, sunlight cast through each small window, sharp beams firing onto walls like lasers from an alien spaceship.

Cream enamel aga set to the right whitewashed wall, soot stained doors show its many years.

Branches of trees turned to carbon element, extracting energies.

I hear the vibration of a large pot bubbling on the stove, rattling like a constant passing train, the lid jiggling on top from which the applesteam escapes, filling the room with the sweet aroma of sugared boiling apples.

Already able to taste the crisp pastry’d pie in my mind.

I stand now, older, wiser, fatter, boiling my apples on a futuristic hob of black glass,

But still my mind casts to that place, as the Irish fields surrounded my simple life.

***

Richard

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