An orchard of one,
it clutches the wall of this house
for shelter from the scorch
and blast of storms.
The air is apple, seaweed,
loud with the bark of seals,
shriek of gulls,
the redshank's trill.
Blossom is brief,
torn away by wind
before the bees are out.
Summer nights are deafened
by the rush of shearwaters
shrilling back to land.
This is an orchard of salt:
in the autumn gales
the shaken apples
dried by wind.
- Gill McEvoy
Second Prize Winner, Lupus UK International Poetry Competition 2011
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