The wild apples have fallen in a river - almost stopping its flow. Like a fruity beaver, the tree's become an ecosystem engineer. Another tree a few metres away hadn't had such a devastating effect.
Maybe fish and water rats like apples. Or maybe there's some freaky cider making going on.
Maybe they'll cause death and disease. Or maybe just encourage domestic violence and liver damage.
Yes, you're right: the Crone's feeling bitter and bleak.
That's the thing with being a Crone: you're alone, unwanted and useless. A kind of ugly, old Cassandra whose words no one wants to hear.
I see Troy in flames and Agamemnon slaughtered. I will never land and feel the soil beneath my feet and ask, is this Ithaca?
No Circe seeks to keep me, no Princes vie for me, no Myrmidons honour me, no people mourn me.
I say mourn me, for, though I may not be dead yet, something inside me died. Something inside me died years ago and the putrefaction spreads. I feel my spirit seep away... or desiccate... or rot, like apples dropped.
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