Tears of the Garden

Sorcerous arcs slashed the vast night
craven blades, as cruel as their light;
spawned in a single haunting scream,
bolts of terror burning rich dreams,
cremated old crone witch to blight.

Villagers struggle to comprehend
who lost this fight and failed to defend.
Packed their troubles and goods onto carts,
look askance at their fields dead and charred.

Tales of this evil fire leaked out,
like chilling mists from lands without;
from father to son and some folks,
'round fires and hearths they sickly spoke,
by roads that skirt this field of coke.

For the few that ventured to this place,
all they saw was her malicious face
charred in mystery to twisted trunk:
paradise once grew but now it's sunk.

One day a single tendril sprouts
no man or beast to see or vouch
that where was singed and blistered earth
now life of green has promised worth
the value and hope of rebirth.

Ploughman commences to clear the land
where that blackened apple tree did stand.
As blade turned earth he let out a cry,
stomach exploded and then he died.

His horse reared up and raced away,
found later stressed, a broken gray.
They never found its master though;
beneath that tree he'd sunk below,
his life-blood drained to make it grow.

As the villages grew into towns
took land to build the new homes around.
This barren field was blackened no more
still men ignored the rich orchard floor.

One day a lad researched his clan
and found a ploughman's unclaimed land;
he read the myths in song and verse
but 'spite such tosh he spurned the curse;
sure sun and rain would fill his purse.

Tree shades rippled like waves in the wind;
patches of light dropped down to ascend
branches whip back raised up in salute:
defending the garden's sacred fruit.

That spot, the only naked ground,
was where they found his plough laid down,
though the body could not be found;
he sensed a presence, not unkind
as though spirits were realigned.

He surveyed his brash undertaking:
saw countless blood apples hung breaking
limbs that were tired of their load but fresh.
He'd harvest this unrefined white flesh.

He set his ladder into place
and then worked his rhythm and pace
plucked apples, wiping intently,
laid them down ever so gently
nestled in flannel, steeped in grace.

So his inspired mind found destiny
in apple-pressed tears sweet as honey
to make good the ploughman's sacrifice
whose blood was taken to break the geis.

Cider aged, fermenting mellow,
apple tears smooth as a cello,
tasting time beneath harvest moon,
oaken table with cloth festooned,
gathered his neighbors and fellows.

Shadows of tree limbs crept across grass,
he hammered the bung and filled each glass
made opening toast, this stalwart lad
who salvaged bounty from trees thought bad.

With glasses filled, the youth cried: "Please,
to ploughman, whose blood fed these trees,
who, dying, lives within this earth
let's celebrate, a shared rebirth!"
They drank all 'round, down to the lees.

A strange fullness descended on them;
melancholy mood; by light of glim
they came to that field, where it began,
found on that tree: smile of the ploughman.