Cotehele's Old Orchard

Ancient deer park, flanked by daffodils,

where moths rise beneath sugilite leaves still,

twilight stretching toward the hush of midnight,

branches, buds, lean into the dark—clothed white

in Cotehele's Old Orchard.

When I am most me, tarsi reach forward,

threading through restless limbs of the medlars,

a butterfly between earth and old sky,

lone dancer in silent expanse of night

in Cotehele's Old Orchard.

Grasshopper—his brief rhythm, violin,

a pulse of sound upon medieval ground,

not for history’s weight, but song of spring:

blue bud, a flower, a fruit, unfolding

in Cotehele's Old Orchard.

Redwings cling to windfall’s spiced apple cores,

a mahogany microcosm feeds whole;

orchard’s immortal time pursues an art—

where labour bends to harvest’s scarlet scarf,

in Cotehele's Old Orchard.

Seed to sight, the orchard bears its truth—

from slow work of season to richest juice;

ladybird, the workhorse; cost of waiting,

held within the patience of ripening

plums and harvesting tapestry of night

in Cotehele's Old Orchard.

Emily Isaacson