apples drew us in to the convent's orchard.
they lined the road all up the hill, broken, crushed to pulp.
a young couple were kissing on the church steps,
the girl wrapped beneath her lover's long leather coat.
thieves, we crept into the convent garden,
as drunk as we were we stirred nothing,
even the convent cat sleeping at the kitchen door
slept on as we pulled unripe apples from the brimming trees.
they were sharp to taste, rancid some of them,
we bit on and we bit in to hard rocks, sickly wet pulp,
after each bite our laughter grew, we took our sin
to the cricket pavilion and washed them down with lager.
we found a ripe one, a blushed red to the rest's jealous green,
we shared it, put the cans down and ate it to its core,
then the two of us swallowed a pip each, like some pill,
and wandered down the apple strewn hill to an all night garage.