Mid-80’s Summer, hot sun beamed day,

Cool mountain breeze, on Putney Mountains peak,

Soft whisper of branches waving to me,

Little boy of no more than five,

The forest calling to me,

Enchanting voice filling me with promises,

The red apple of delight,

The sweet nectar for me to suckle,

As it drew me into her embrace,

Five and all alone,

On lonely play ground, near orchard overgrown,

Shorts and tee shirt,

80’s little boy, braver than any city kid,

Sun tanned, carrying his jack knife,

All he needs to face down the monsters the woods hold,

As the tree’s close around him,

He looks about this way and that,

Seeing the dangers,

Hearing the yells,

Feeling the fear in his gut,

Turning around in fearsome flight,

Down the hill to his waiting farm home.

This event has haunted me since and forever will.