We’ve been eating apples since at least March, and it looks as though it will be the end of this month (July) before they’re finished. The tree is full of silvereyes most of the day, having a jolly good feast. Sparrows and blackbirds join in. I pick a bowl full of the fruit every now and again and we look for ways to eat it.
Is it a bee or a wasp on this apple?
I’m reminded of this poem by Lauris Edmond (not related to the Edmond’s Cookbook as far as I know):
Think of her coming in from the garden,
her hair blowing and the green breath
of summer drifting across the verandah
the long grass, and the smell of apples –
behind her a blazing February sky,
the first thistledowns, and the haze;
see her drag out the old capacious
preserving pan from the darkened pantry
smelling of spices and orange peel,
and notice the small lines around her eyes,
the bones of her bending shoulders…
and wait – for how do you know, this time,
if she will offer you one apple
or many, or possibly none at all?