One day two apple trees travelled north by train

A man who knows about trees in East Anglia chose two apple trees for my little wild garden at the dacha.

They travelled north by the train, in the corridor of the first class carriage. I sat in the standard class thinking of them.

They were planted the very next day and for three years teased me with abundance of foliage, tiny crop of minute apples, and worried me with the absence of blossom. Then one year, almost overnight, after a spring of most magical flower they bore fruit. And what fruit it was! Shiny, red, crisp, shapely globes, with real skin and pink taint in their juicy flesh. There were hundreds of them. The little branches groaned under the multitude. I loved them, the birds loved them..

Next winter was very hard. Deer came down into the gardens to look for food. They nibbled at anything not covered by snow. Branches of evergreens, shrubbery and tree bark. Apple tree bark! One of the little trees was beyond help, its bark gnawed, ringed. It was ailing all spring and finally died in the autumn. The other survived and grew higher and stronger but did not bear apples that year.

This spring my apple tree is covered in most beautiful blooms. They are delicately pink and cover the branches like a kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttering in the warm breeze...

I could say that I can’t wait until autumn harvest but I do not want to rush the seasons. So, for now I will just enjoy the blossom as I linger in the shade of my not-so-little apple tree reading a poem by a lovely Irish lyricist...

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS WENT out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread;   And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout.   When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And some one called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air.   Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.