GRANDMA´S APPLE PIE:

Granny would awaken me early on a winter dawn,

Kissing me out of her feather bed so soft & warm,

“Come on sleep head”, she´d tussle my head & say,

So out of bed I´d creep & dress up for a cold old day.

We crept through the morning of cold & frosty hoar,

Gran with her basket & wrapped up in her old shawl,

Old Jess by my side, breathing deep & hotly steamy,

The waning moon above, sits high, & golden creamy.

We picked icy cold apples, crisp, yellow, green & rosy red,

Greeting little animals & the early birds while old Jess led,

With our basket full, home we hungrily & coldly traipsed,

For hot tea & buttery toast, leaving not a crumb to waste.

The fun began; the mixing bowls & the ingredients came out,

The flour & spices, the worn wooden spoons, carved & stout,

The mixing begins, beating, licking of spoons & spices added,

Cinnamon, clove, butter & sugar, stirred, moulded & patted.

The watching of the wood-stove & the painful, hungry waiting,

Mouth watering at sweet spicy aromas, drifting & emanating,

After an eternity, at last Granny opens that fierce oven door,

The apple pie was done & even poor old Jess paced the floor.

Warm, pungent, melting & served with freshly made clotted cream,

Gran, Jess & I sat at the old wood table eating a home-made dream,

I´d never miss that special day, the making of Granny´s hot apple pie,

Just us together before the icy dawn, old Jess the dog, my Grandma & I.