Cider

Today we are making cider.
It is a glorious autumnal day.
Set up beneath the giant Lime tree.
The press, the chopper, the apples.
So it is cut, slice and toss.
Fallers, scavenged and grown apples of many varieties,
Of dubious pedigree.
Into the hopper.
Hop on the bike.
Treadle the pedals.
And the chop, crush, smash
Chopper does its work making apple mash.
Squirts of juice splash.
Apple pieces miss the bucket,
Later the geese will find them.
Into the drum with its fluted sides of birch.
The heavy steel top is laid down.
Then the screw.
The turning begins easily and the brown nectar flows.
Out onto the stainless plate and through the moulded spout into a little bucket.
Strained and added to the growing swirling brown sea of liquor.
When we're done and the mess cleaned,
We will await its blop, blop,
Through the air lock.
When its slowed its singing,
We'll bottle it,
With a teaspoon of sugar and a sultana.
Our home-made cider.