Street Apples



This apple tree was there long before the neighbourhood was built, a remnant of the farmstead that once occupied this strip of land.

It was a small wonder to have trees like this, belonging to no one, and giving away its fruits. It was a small, gnarled tree that had been ill for some years, and his fruits spotted, acid, imperfect. I knew the city would remove it eventually, but never forgot to offer my thanks.

The poem did rhyme in its French form, but I endeavoured to keep the rythm alive.



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