Where patterned snails slip slow

The apple tree,now bare of leaves.
Still bends in worship to the sun.
The sap flows down into the earth
Its fruiting year is done.

Where once a cat sat on the branch,
And children played below,
Now only sparrows hunt for crumbs,
and patterned snails slip slow.

The sun is setting on my left;
where is the slivered moon?
The day is deeper than a dream,
and over all too soon.

Oh,come,my lover,to my bed
And hold me in your arms.
I’ll rest against your fragile chest,
Whilst you enjoy old charms.