Anyway, Jo and I had the great privilege of staying on this farm for a few months and also attending a country school as well. A great experience which has left an indelible love of country life deep in my soul.
The farm was a mixed one, having sheep and cattle as well as orchards and grain crops. The chickens free-ranged and the cows were hand milked. There was an apple orchard next to the farmhouse which had Jonathans and Granny Smiths as the two main varieties. Surplus apples for home consumption were kept in the big shearing shed in an unused woolpress, hence my poem. Enjoy!
Apples in the Woolpress
That fresh green smell of Granny Smiths,
I wanted one, the urge so strong,
My mouth was moist, anticipating.
I couldn't wait, stride quick and long
Across the farmyard, hens creating
Clucking protests 'til I'm gone.
The shearing shed was where they're waiting,
Objects of my race headlong,
Apples in the woolpress.
That fresh green smell of Granny Smiths,
Driving out the old sheep odour.
Searching fingers crawl and creep,
Deep in the press as I reached over.
Fingertips brushed waxy skins,
Then grasped their prize, a fruitful honour.
The snap and crunch of that first bite
Are sounds of thanks to Smith's grandma for
Apples in the woolpress.
That fresh green smell of Granny Smiths
Masked the work in that big woolshed.
Crutching time no meaning had
In this small boy's distracted young head.
Terror pounced as sheep raced by
And on their way out , blocked my exit.
Farmer's hands a rescue made
And whisked me wailing from that shed, and
Apples in the woolpress.
