A Harvest Poem by Barry Middleton

I read the saddest tale today,
an image peaceful as could be,
and yet a dream we all must dread,
of apples dropping from their tree.

As one by one the apples fell,
the dreamer wakened with a start,
and reached to grasp his telephone,
then held it to his trembling heart.

The old man knew he must pretend,
that ripened moments long forgot,
will never fall as apples do,
to lie beneath the orchard lot.

He quietly dialed the telephone,
a number that he often calls,
if just to hear a friendly voice,
before that final apple falls.

He listened as the silence spoke,
of epochs death must now erase,
for soon his heart could beat no more,
as apples found their resting place.