for Lyubomir Nikolov
Apples: they clogged the brook,
and the turf under the boughs
was a cobbled yard to our feet:
do you remember?
How returning at dusk we rescued
four plastic-bagsful of them –
so ripe they were, and bruised,
and near to rotting.
We cooked them in vinegar
with onions, garlic, sultanas,
soft brown sugar, ground ginger,
salt and black pepper.
Jar after jar for gifts.
Yet I’m eating it still, and still
I’ve a store, which stores in itself
that fruitful September –
you remember it, Lyubomir,
I know you remember.