Penelope Shuttle

An apple tree bent double with fruit grew in the middle of the living room shaking gently as the average family pootled by with plates or devices in their hands The room was almost all tree everyone edged round it Curiously no one picked a single apple nor did the ripe fruit ever fall The full tree stood there a daemon to behold Who lives in that house now I can’t tell you My childhood lives on there and my parent shadows and all my days and nights that will never bear fruit The apple tree I speak of roots itself partly in truth and partly in lies Those roots are splinters of the true cross They alone know why miracles are best avoided