The setting sun adorned the bay
And gentle winds were westerly.
Mr. Moran called to say
That Esther was requesting me.

I'd only known her for a week.
In Flora's quiet cafe she spoke
To compliment my strong mystique,
An aura kindled by my cloak.

She joined me for a cup of tea
And some of Flora's carrot cake.
We spoke about the bourgeoisie
And poetry by William Blake.

Before I left to flaunt my pose
And walk my aura by the sea,
I said I'd help her weave the prose
To tell a tale she had to free,

A story trapped inside her mind,
To feed her readers fine rewards,
Like cheddar fed to those who've dined
On fodder sliced with bloody swords.

She said she'd wait until she felt
Her words could flow in streams that swell,
A mental thaw when snowfalls melt
And feed the streams where salmon dwell.

She'd summon me to her abode.
When Mr. Moran called I went
And heard the words that thawed and flowed
To flood an empty document.

I typed as she described the scene:
Lovers lost in morning mist.
I thought it sounded saccharine
Until her tale threw up a twist.

This couple were two apple trees
Who shook their leaves to speak in sound,
Though both of them knew Portuguese.
Their roots spoke German underground.

Esther claimed to be the child
Of these two trees with tender souls,
Who danced when autumn winds were wild
And used their fruit to play lawn bowls.

She'll stand for weeks on orchard paths
And she'll retain a blissful stare
When Frisbees, balls and frightened cats
Get stuck in her amazing hair.