Apple Children
The fruit trees have not been baptised
children`s souls in limbo, in mist
Cold green fruit hangs in the rain,
it is a hole in the late afternoon.
They gave been punished by the battery of
the old priest`s car, hurried steps over wet gravel.
Neither heaven nor hell, the rounds of blossom unbroken,
pointless to walk through, should the rain cease.
poem by Leslie Philibert
Added by Poetry Lover
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