The Last Apple on the Tree.                                

 

I hang alone,

passed by and forgotten.

The wind mocks me as it whispers softly by.

My friends lay scattered before me amongst the autumn leaves;

The sun, once so kind, exposes my long ago unblemished skin,

now mottled and brown.

Rain pummels me; and yet still I hang.

The days pass slowly; darkly.

I have never been displayed,

or proudly polished on a trouser leg; before being devoured.

I am and will forever be;

The last apple on the tree.

 

© 2018 Taylor Crowshaw