Skeletons of the past
where ancient apples grew.
Red roses in the garden
whose name we never knew.
Behind the door a parlour
where people entertained
Listening to a fiddle
Or someone playing spoons
Or maybe an old seanchaí
A glass of poitin on his knee
Telling tales both tall or true
Another sod of turf burns brightly
As embers sparkled to the sky
An old bearded banjo player
Strikes up the Apple blossom special
And the bones of the orchard
Danced once more.

Jpoet7