Granny's Apples

Did you throw an apple core, or maybe stone of plum
In the deep damp cutting where the sun could barely come?
And did you sit back on your seat,
with folded hands and tidy feet
and watch the spark-filled smoke
and the small fires it awoke
in the drier high-up patches,
where the grass was dry as thatches?
And did you ever guess
how these small gifts would bless
the children yet unborn
who in the early morn
tread gaily down that track
where the trains will not come back?
Now the blossom of the plum
tells of harvests yet to come
and the apple trees profuse
give the banks another use
and the fireweed holds its memories
of flying sparks on days like these.