Windfall

Behind a ruined cottage
ghosts endure among untended trees.
Imperfect fruit weighs down
gnarled branches.

The shadow of a child
skips rope, each turn clips
hard-packed clay.

The sun slips lower.

A hungry child
her ice-blue eyes, a frenzy of curls,
gathering windfall apples,
counts the hours
where father labours,
mother packs fruit.

Echoes fill gaps
across the distance.

Last night, a storm
shook free immature fruit
where she once skipped rope.

Unripe apples tingle
on my tongue.