My mother baked an apple crumble, Golden brown over green. She did everything right, Followed the recipe to perfection, Warmed her hands on the oven door whilst checking. When it came out? Just a stodgy mess. Some said she’d stewed it too long. Others claimed the apples bruised. One said they were rotten. But you can’t return an apple crumble to the oven, As it’ll never become a pie. How I wish I still hung from the tree.
About the Poet:
Richard M. Ankers is the English author of The Eternals Series and Britannia Unleashed. Richard has featured in Expanded Field Journal, Love Letters To Poe, Spillwords, and feels privileged to have appeared in many more. Richard lives to write.
Website: richardankers.com
Twitter: @Richard_Ankers
Ephemeral Elegies 