Oh, the joy of this, as a child!
The churning stomach, incase you were spotted,
The tension of keeping cavey** for a friend,
The risk of grazing an arm or leg,
Scrambling over walls, through fences,
Up the tree itself,
But the badge of glory of these ‘war wounds’!
Then stealing those apples,
With a pink blush on a green skin,
As if they’d been sunburned…
And that first illicit bite,
The crunch as you took that first mouthful,
The crack of mild acidity,
That made you momentarily screw your eyes up,
And the juice dripping down your chin!
And then the retreat with your treasure.
Oh, the delight of scrumping!

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* scrumping = stealing apples from someone else’s orchard
** keep cavey = keep lookout