poetry and prose about place

Posts Tagged ‘orchard

in an orchard

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T. 'apples and branches' May 31 2016 Jane Tims




between apples, twigs and leaves

stems and branches

are glimpses

of sky


sapphire and cerulean

panes of leaded




molten in motions of wind

edges in




fragile as blades of bent grass

stiffened by frozen





Copyright   2019   Jane Tims


All my best,


Written by jane tims

August 12, 2019 at 7:00 am

getting ready for fall – orchard green

with 7 comments

Thirty years ago, we planted a young Wolf River apple tree in our side yard. I wanted to create an orchard where I could walk in the shade and gather fruit in fall.


For years we took good care of the orchard – three apple trees and a cherry. In spring I have inhaled the sweet fragrance of apple and cherry blossoms. In spring I watch the blossoms burst open like popped corn. I listen to the bees gathering their nectar. Watch the apples ripen and grow. Some years I make apple jelly, some years applesauce. In the fall I watch deer under the trees, eating their fill of apples.  One year a deer challenged me for ownership of the Wolf River tree, pounding his hoof into the ground with a loud, reverberating stomp.


A few years ago, our interests turned to other things and the orchard was left to go its own way. The cherry tree continued to bloom but produced no cherries because it is ‘self-unfruitful’  and needs another cherry tree. Two of the apple trees succumbed to the shade and died. The Wolf River tree survived, but grew tall and gangly, trying to reach the sun that peaks over the roof of the house.


Now, priorities have shifted. We are interested again in the ‘orchard’ and have plans for its future. In the next weeks we intend to cut down the dead trees. A friend has agreed to prune the Wolf River tree when the season is right, to bring its branches within reach.  I will buy another cherry tree so we can finally have cherries.


To seal the plan for the orchard, I have done a portrait of the apples as they grow plump in late summer. Painted in acrylics, 11″ x 14′, gallery edges, with Ultramarine Blue, Cadmium Yellow, Titanium White, Paynes Grey and Burnt Sienna.



August 26, 2016 ‘orchard green’ Jane Tims

Copyright 2016 Jane Tims

Written by jane tims

August 29, 2016 at 7:00 am

harvesting colour – Rough Bedstraw

with 4 comments




Rough Bedstraw

            Gallium asprellum Michx.


along the sleepy river

green shoreline, plumped and pillowed

rough bedstraw, river trick


river and shoreline beckon

you to bed down, settle down

get a little shut-eye, tough

stuff bedstraw, mattress thick


shoreline a bedroom, rough

bedstraw, green mattress, blue sky

bedspread, blue river tick




orchard along the Saint John River


Published as ‘Rough Bedstraw, Canadian Stories 17 (99),October/November 2014

Copyright  2014  Jane Tims


Written by jane tims

October 24, 2014 at 7:01 am

in the apple orchard

with 5 comments

One of the spaces I loved the best on my grandfather’s farm was the apple orchard.  It was a small orchard, perhaps twenty trees.  I have never seen it in spring when the apple blossoms are in bloom, in fall when the trees are laden with fruit, or in winter when the stark bones of the trees are visible.  But I knew the orchard in summer, when the green canopies of the trees shed thick shade over the meadow grasses beneath.

an apple orchard in August


In summer, the orchard was usually a private space.  The farm yard could be bustling with people and animals, but the orchard was set apart.  It was a still room of dark and dapple. 

At the edge of the orchard was a green swing chair.  It was a braced frame with two benches, facing one another and suspended for swinging.  Four people could sit in comfort and sway genteelly to and fro.  Or a lone child could pump vigorously back and forth until one side of the frame lifted high with each upward swing and gave a satisfying lurch on its return.  I, of course, would never have done such a thing.

When I wasn’t pushing the swing to its limits, I was climbing apple trees, one in particular.  Its main side branch was as thick as its trunk and jutted out parallel to the ground.  A little jump and you could sit on it like a chair.  Swing a leg across and you had a horse.  Stand on it and you were in the crow’s nest of a sailing ship.  Sit down again, lean against the trunk and you had the ideal perch for reading the afternoon away.

an apple orchard in spring (photo by G. Tims)

The orchard was usually a private space.  But on Family Reunion Day, it was the focus of the festivities.  Big tables covered with white cloths were assembled in a line.  Enough chairs were unfolded for every person in our very large family.  Cars turned in at the driveway and claimed a spot in the farm yard.  Cousins rolled from the cars and were soon climbing and swinging in the orchard.  The table gradually filled with a conundrum of casseroles, bean pots, roasters and platters. 

After the eating was done, wire hoops went up for a game of croquet.  My Dad loved croquet and would show me all the tricks – how to get through the starting hoops in a single turn and how to ricochet off the goal post.  He also showed me how to bump up against the ball of another player and send their ball flying out of bounds on the next turn.  Armed with my learning, I gripped my croquet mallet, certain to win.  And realised my brothers and sister and some of the cousins had some strategies of their own!

After the Reunion was over and the last car was waved from the driveway, I was left alone in the orchard and it seemed more empty and silent than before.

I would love to return to the apple orchard on my grandfather’s farm and read a book in my tree one more time.  Are you ever too old to climb an apple tree?




the worn blanket flung

over the bough

of the apple tree

is an old woman

she hugs the limb

reaches for a branch

or an apple

barely beyond

the crook

of her fingers

she would dare

to set her foot

on the branch

and the next

step up

put the orchard

below her

rise above

the canopy

the valley

the meander of the river


she waits

in the dapple

clings to the branch

endures the tremble

delays the fall


Published as:  ‘dapple’, 1998, Green’s magazine (Autumn 1998) XXXVII (1)


© Jane Tims

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