Studying the prickling heat on his skin,
Imagining each spot of pain to be spider bites,
Pricking flesh and spilling not quite blood
but a liquid coloured at the edge of it.
He felt no appetite, for there were no apples
Like those apples he tasted that afternoon,
He had never tasted apples like those.
Not before nor since.
There were never apples like that again
And the sun beats down on his forgetfulness
And memory seems shattered:
The smell of rain, fresh on the stone
Of paving slabs and steps beside the lawn
Where he ran on the wet grass and fell:
He fell more than he should
but it did not matter.