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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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