Golden apples ripening in the soft warm September sun
Hanging still from drooping, ancient, gnarled branches
Waiting impatiently as if wanting to drop and burst on the grass below
Too heavy to be moved by the gentle early autumn breaths
Leaves just moving as if whispering that the time has come

Crushed and strained with their very flesh removed
And fed to confirm that epic pork and apple tradition
Life juices drained, incarcerated in wooden prisons
Abandoned until that hoped for life returns
All the while unknowingly stirring expectant and extant passions

Then when the time is right and nature tells
That promise is fulfilled
The Holy alcoholic Grail bursts forth to fill the waiting jugs
Smells redolent of the West, of shining straw and lazy orchards
Tempt the unwary and increase the size of the flock

Such cider can be full of honeyed sweetness
Or dry sufficient to take the spit from your throat
Strong enough to turn your world about
From earth through root and branch and fruit
You taste, savour and are seduced by that Somerset siren