James K Baxter (1926-70 NZ)

The Apple Tree

From that high apple-tree, my love,
That somehow bent in Eden
Its branches down above the sleeping pair

(Mouth near to mouth, plaited together,
Bread newly baked in god's great oven)...
From that early happy grove

I think your fingers bring me
Leaves, your mouth air and water.
Through your kisses, I, time's prisoner,

Undo the stubborn bolts and enter
Where none have gone before. Your body
Is my wild apple-tree, my poor man's treasure.