A row of dead apples in a grove-tomb,
and the cider isn't pressed here anymore.
Inside, like sundials in agony,
round cheeses of wood croak when touched.
But outside... grave and spectacular:
a hat in the shade, tiny kites of sun
on gravel, shining through the gate's ply lattice;
ghosts of words in the grass.

Stug Jordan

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dymock/