A Tree
Sat steadily at the centre of an endless field.
Never still.
Its branches grow, then fall.
From nothing, to green, then only decay,
Even the leaves come and go.
Yet, always there sits a shadow, constant behind the everblooming oak.

A boy fiddles with an apple as he sits within the shade.
He does not wander, only sits and plays,
Gnawing away at the fruits born.