Tag: passing time

Apples cling to trees,
autumn whispers through the leaves—
seasons come and go.

The apples hung low on the branches, their skins turning from pale green to a mellow blush of red, redolent ripe with the promise of sweetness, blushing from the kiss of the quiet light of the autumn sun. I stood beneath the tree, the dry leaves crunching softly beneath my feet, and watched them sway in the breeze. Something about the way they moved—imperceptibly, almost indifferently—reminded me of memories I couldn’t quite place. Memories of someone’s laughter, or perhaps a voice I had once known but now couldn’t recall. 

Autumn has a way of drawing out things you thought you had forgotten. The chill in the air, the dimming of the days—it all makes you more aware of endings. And ripening apples, hanging heavy and full of sweetness, seem like tiny worlds suspended in time, caught between what they are and what they will inevitably become. 

I reached out to touch one, its skin smooth but cool, like the cheek of someone you’ve grown distant from. It resisted, its stem holding firm, as though it wasn’t ready to leave its place. Or maybe it was me who wasn’t ready. Letting go is always harder than holding on, even when the time has come. 

The tree stood there, unmoving, even as the wind rattled its branches. Its roots were buried deep in the earth, unseen but steady, holding the weight of its fruit with an almost silent dignity. I envied that—the ability to endure, to remain grounded while everything else around it began to slip away. 

I thought about how these apples would eventually fall. Some would land gently in the grass, their sweetness savored by those who found them. Others would bruise and rot, sinking back into the earth without anyone noticing. Maybe it didn’t matter. Either way, the tree would keep growing, season after season, its branches reaching for the sky, shedding its leaves with each passing autumn, only to grow anew.

Standing there, I felt something sharp but fleeting pass through me—like the sudden scent of smoke from a far-off fire, or the way a song can remind you of someone who’s gone. It was a kind of loneliness, but not the painful kind. More like the kind you learn to carry with you, like an old photograph folded neatly in your pocket. 

I let my hand fall away from the apple and stepped back, the cold air stinging my face. The tree swayed again, and I could hear the faint sound of a bird in the distance. Somewhere beyond the horizon, winter was waiting, but for now, the apples were still ripening, holding their place in the world for just a little while longer. And that, I thought, was all they needed to be.

I’m in Hereford with my dad at the moment, surrounded by plenty of apples. Back in Pembrokeshire, where I’m from, they’re much rarer—the weather just doesn’t suit them. What kinds of crops grow best where you are?

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