The Family Tree

Old men cling to their gnarl-wooden sticks And wither from the cares of the world over Like apple blossom kissed silver with icy cold licks They know there are no more days of Clover But from their flowering came the fruit The seed of wane-blown family From their branching water-shoot A core of all that's good and Bramley So remember dearly, remember clearly The canker of their clay sincerely Since they still warm us ever so dearly With their glowing embers. And sweeten our childhood, September's Long into their autumnal Novembers.