That summer's harvest bellowed apples
bringing the trees almost to their knees,
nearly felled by the pounding weight.
We picked less than one-tenth the crop,
fielding fallers too, their bruised flesh
fizzing with self fermentation.
We quartered the fruit with a crisp slash
and they fell in the bucket like waning moons
falling from an orange harvest sky.
Sharp edged blades and water made the mash
running through our fingers like a fresh spunk,
pouring like cold lava to the press,
oozing green under the screws caress,
ejaculating the last liquid drops,
leaving a stink of dehydrated flesh
we threw in the compost as a slow
boiling began it's self controlling buzz.
Five days after sealing the lid
it began bulging with the weight of gas,
lifting with small sighs of apple breath.
We saw the soft scum, spawn mould,
apple brown, spewling and yeasty.
Siphoning into jars intensified
the ochre muck full of it's own sap.
For weeks it stood quaking in the kitchen
till a late, low sun clarified through it.
By Christmas we would be quaffing it.
And under the buoyant trees, fruit still pounded
with fermentation's pulse, making a cider
soil boozed worms squirm through.