Trigger Warning
There is an apple tree
At the bottom of the garden
Where my brother and I once played
Swinging on branches
Climbing high and low.
Tree stood a century
Giving September crop of apples
Now in my old age a shrine
With memories of childhood.
There is an apple tree
Where I often go and sit beneath
And if I listen very hard
I hear my brother’s happy cries
As we climbed high and low.