In the summer of my thirteenth year 
I made a hammock from old sheets,

       knotted it between two apple trees 
       that stood in our small backyard.

Both gnarled, one propped at the hip, 
together, they bore my weight

       as I drowsed through the thick 
       secret rustle of hot afternoons

a notebook across my knees,
each page a fretwork of shadow and light.

       I scowled away Mum, bearing juice 
       and Dad when he checked the knots.

It was to the trees I whispered 
and they bent their heads to listen

       as I gently swung, an unripe fruit 
       carried like one of their own -

green and troubled beneath the skin, 
a dark starring of pips at the heart.

       When the windfalls came, I tasted 
       my own wasp-sharpness in their flesh

until Mum showed me how to bake them - 
just a little sugar, a gentle heat.