There’s nobody here from the
long ago.
It’s summer,
and I’m alone in the apple orchard.

The Starks are ripe,
and the Roman Beauties,
but no one comes
to gather the rosy windfall.

I look out through the leaves
and the waist-high horseweed,
and see the old schoolyard,
where, after the chalk dust
and paper of lessons,
we played London Bridge
and Red Rover.


But no one arrives
from those childhood mornings,
when all the world lay before us,
young, and dappled in April light,

the Northern Spy in first flower,
and playmates calling my name.

Calling, calling,

Red Rover, Red Rover,
come over, come over.