Photo by Benji Martinez on Unsplash</p>

There were three apple trees in Grandfathers garden.
One grew on the weedy bank behind the cottage
and when summer’s evening sun glowed through its branches,
amber light through window panes rested on my bed.
I fell asleep in apple magic.

Those apples were golden skinned, rosy cheeked,
we loved their juicy freshness.
So did the wasps, who did not want to share them.
Granddad picked them for us to eat.

The second tree grew behind the rabbit hutches,
its fruit dull colored, knobbly, ignored all summer.
In winter those apples filled chests in the cool front room,
a bit of summer saved, shriveling with each
passing month, fruit becoming soft but tasting just right
when north wind whistled in the chimney.

The third tree was the one, the cooking apple tree.
It hung its branches high over Granddad’s shed.
Its fruit was puckery, not good to eat from the tree.
The apples would be picked in September, but
granny would send us to pick windfalls in late August.
We watched her peel and slice them,
fill buttery pastry, poke cloves in, make turnovers.
If she made two, our smiles grew wider,
it meant we were included in the feast.
She packed the pastries in a canvas bag, along with cheddar,
warm bread, onions and Cos lettuce from the garden,
old wine bottles filled with lemonade.

We followed her over the fields, fresh stubble
scratching our ankles.
New stacked sheaves beckoned, teepees to play in,
forbidden territory if workmen saw us playing.
We met neighbors carrying bags and baskets,
joined Granddad with the other reapers lying in the shade.
We ate and talked, my little brothers asking myriad questions
about the mowers and binders and fascinating blades.

I left those golden fields and days so long ago,
Returning over thousands of miles, – I could have crossed a mile with every one –
introducing family to my childhood home, I swallow deeply.
Granny and Granddad gone for many years, house gone too,
tumbled along with its thatch among spring lilacs, daffodils, and summer roses.
I walk beside my husband, I am surrounded by acccompanying children,
but for these overwhelming moments I walk alone.

Nearing the place I step from meadow grass onto the gravel track
that was our road of adventure.
My feet move as though in dreamtime, and find the path that led
to Grandad’s garden. Almost seen, ghostly shadows play.
Almost heard, a creaky wheelbarrow passing, little brothers
teasing, Bantam chickens scratching in the nextdoor hedge.

My brief vision retreats, I see the ruin and the tangle,
pick out what I remember.
There’s the elderberry, source of Pan flutes, of jam to spread
on Whitby’s bread and top with cream.
Close to it a gnarled and broken tree – it has to be the purple damson,
I see no fruit, but it once hung heavy branches down.
And there I see the cooking apple tree, the only one of three,
close enough to see. It looks not so grand as in my memory,
but it still holds fruit, and now memory serves juice, and the bite
of whole clove in my throat.
I could take a few windfalls, bake a turnover.

But there is no way through the tangle. There will be no turnover.
I spin phrases telling of the yesterday trapped among the brambles
and debris in that old garden, but my family’s eyes are anxious,
today is calling them to more familiar gardens, and we turn away.