The Lemon Tree

Every day we arrived armed with red baskets, in orange boots,
as the sun peeked
and the birds sang
morning tunes.

Round and round we would run
stomping on the soil
beneath the sun,
yellow
falling from the sky.

Silently
we searched the ground for
fruit, hidden in the green,
the sun
shining on our backs.

Even though our necks
ached we were too afraid
to lift our heads
and selfishly
rob from your branches.

Baskets full, grandpa sat
against your trunk,
resting in the shade
while Rosie and I picked flowers
for Mum.