Photo by Marek Studzinski on Unsplash

There were three apple trees in Grandfather’s garden
one grew on the bank behind the house,
the summer’s setting sun glowed through its branches,
sent amber light through window panes to rest upon my bed,
I slept in a magic kingdom.

The apples were golden skinned, honey-sweet,
we loved their juicy freshness,
so did the wasps, who did not want to share them,
Grandad picked the apples for us.

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

The third tree was the one, the cooking-apple tree.
It hung its branches high, over Grandad’s shed.
The fruit was puckery, not good to eat from the tree.
Granny sent us to pick the wind-falls,
we watched her peel and slice them,
poke whole cloves here and there,
fold the pastry over, making turn-overs.
If she made two, we smiled wider.
It meant the picnic was for us.
She packed them warm into the bag along with cheese, warm bread,
onions and cos lettuce from the garden
old wine bottles full of lemonade.

We followed her over fields,
fresh stubble scratching our ankles.
New stacked sheaves beckoning, teepees to play in,
we met with our neighbors bringing baskets,
joined Grandad and the reapers lying in the shade,
we ate and talked, my brothers asking myriad questions,
about the machines that went round and round,
cutting barley.
Trees and fields and golden days, left there many years ago.

Returning, journeying thousands of miles, I could have crossed a year with every mile,
taking my family home. Longing to see my grandparents’ place
Gran and Grandad were gone,
I knew the house was gone too, tumbled along with its thatch,
Among lilacs, roses, daffodils, and the apple trees.

Still, we walked the meadows, me traveling among ghosts,
I walked beside my husband, I was surrounded by children,
but I walked alone.

Nearing the place, I stepped from meadow grass,
onto the gravel track that had been the golden road of playtime,
my feet moved in molasses, but they found that path that led
to Grandad’s garden. Almost seen, the shadows played,
almost hard, the sound of the wheelbarrow rattling,
of little brothers giggling and jumping in stacks of ancient chaff.
of bantam chickens scratching in the next-door hedge.

There was the elderberry, source of Pan flutes, of jam to spread and top with cream,
there a gnarled old tree, it has to be the purple damson,
though long ago it bore its final fruit.
And there, the cooking-apple tree, the only one of the three close enough to see,
there it was still hanging its branches, still heavy with its August fruit.
I could take some of them, bake an apple turnover, share it with my loves,
so I thought.

But there was no way through, old brambles were so tangled on the path,
I might have been a prince trying to reach Sleeping Beauty
There would be no turnover.
I tried to tell the yesterday that was trapped among the bushes and the trees
in that old garden.
But my family’s eyes were anxious, today was calling them home,
we turned away, walked back to town, and caught a plane,
and the apple tree, the thatch, the gold-catching windows, remain.