Ripe-Old Apple-Trees Poem by Mark Heathcote

I want to write a poem about ripe old apple trees.
And seated old poets in armchairs with arthritic knees,
Carving words out into windblown dandelion seeds
Circling trunks and boughs—where a snake precedes
To hiss and talk in serpent tongues of ancient times
I want to write a poem that reaches starry heights.
About them, shadows stretch lower than a grass adder.
That gives off a whiff of sourness, not glamour.

Again, I want to write a poem about Adam and Eve.
Adam rolled up his sleeves but couldn't please Eve.

How Eve jealously guarded a secret
How it tipped the world into self-relevance
Such white blossoms, inked, flail into the sky.
Like snake scales outgrown all-too-often-left awry.
I want to write a poem about ripe old apple trees.
And poets in their armchairs, with arthritic knees,
But sadly, I haven't had the time to do so, child.
I'm becoming all too old and now sleep-beguiled.