Kneeling beneath the apple trees,
I am pruning the lower branches to stretched
ewe-neck height
having let sheep in to browse
and help tidy up.

In my green singlet top,
I must appear a sprite,
for sheep are soft-muzzle-nuzzling up,
cobweb-brushing past,
one even stops to gently mouth - Careful,
silly,
that's my booby.

Sweet-sap-swollen twiglets drop
from lopping secateurs,
baby-fist-sized apples, also.
Tart and flushed
with the faintest of teething blushes,
they leaf litter ground.

Yet still,
naughty sheep Aztec-stretch neck,
lips and tongue busy as overturned beetle feet,
flurry-nibbling air, persistently trying
to tease a treat down.
Look there,
you greedy thing,
two plump Delicious lying at hoof
but no,
forbidden is always more delectable.

It is far too late
to be pruning and I have allowed
trees to grow more
shade-giving leaf than entirely practical.
I have blocked fruit-fostering air and light
and hindered bumper crop
but I don't
care.

It is my incination and my one, un-husbandry
though mild,

defiance.

I like the shade, it is deep-sea-green,
so unlike the harried, fretting dapple of gum-trees
and soft grass flourishes underneath,
gladly co-exists,
                          whereas eucalypts
colonise with moisture-mining rootlets
that hair-net-catch the most meagre of droplets
turn lush
to Oklahoma dust.

In my tress,
Wagtails and Silver Eyes rest easy,
nest in the soft-leaved, dendritic convenience,
invisible to whistle-blowing, scouting hawks.

Fruit and flowers and leaves bring
light-dancing insects
and air-riding arachnids -
                                         they are like reefs,
                       my trees,
they harbour enchanting health.

So, against
sage gardening advice,
I choose to nurture this single vice:
I let leaves and branches and untamed life, uneconomically

be.