The Fruits of Her Labour An apple resting on a thick wooden board; cut and fashioned from the oak tree ford. In working hooves this fruit be transformed; To be peeled and sliced or crushed and poured. Into the mill, ground into fine white dust; Back to the kitchen with the flour I trust? Egg, butter, flour and salt for the crust; Kneading and rolling with love is a must. The dough laid gently in a ceramic base; Pour out the filling in the middle for taste. A top layer of pastry to complete the embrace; Stoke the flame, in the clay fireplace. From oven to window, left to cool and rest; Load up the cart and head to the west. Stand in the stall and yell from your chest; Tell them the quality is only the best. Fritters and tarts for a decent exchange; Cobbler, strudel and pie fresh from the range. Customers aplenty, some of them strange; “Come back sugarcube, ya fergot yer change!” The sun is setting, it’s the end of the day; Your poor aching legs, time to hit the hay. You should rest Applejack, whaddya say? “I can’t just yet, gotta make sure they’re okay.” Granny Smith is a spirit bold and free; Trying to climb those steps, she grazed her knee. “I’m sorry der Applejack. Mah hip ain’t whut it used tah be.” “That’s all right granny. You’d do the same fer me.” “The girls and I just can’t seem to find our way!” A frustrated Apple Bloom cried out in dismay. “You and yer friends will get yer cutie marks one day.” Said a comforting older sister, wiping her tears away. Poor Applejack was truly tuckered out; She works too hard, of this there is no doubt. For a breather she walked her usual route; While she was at it, she checked the beans and sprouts. Seeds in the ground and fruit in the trees; Reaching for light as they push and tease. Singing and swaying in the cool summer breeze; Such a delight on nights such as these. Waves of fatigue come and go as they please; Crashing insistently, bring you to your knees. Fallen asleep outside by the tall apple trees; Finally at rest, finally at ease. One strong red apple who was good to the core; Scooped up his sister and made for the door. Her breathing was soft, with a gentle snore; Big Brother sighed, this must’ve happened before. Slowly setting down the amber mare; Putting her to bed, with utmost care. He wouldn’t wake her, he wouldn’t dare; She was tired and beat, it was all she could bare. He tucked her in and turned off the light, Thinking to himself that was it for the night. His ears flickered as his muscles clamped tight; A voice from the darkness, nearly gave him a fright. “Thank ya Big Mac. Did it happen again?”. Asked the sweet mare, with the straw yellow mane. “Eeyup.” He replied with his expression plain; Hiding a smile he could barely contain.
