October

When I saw the meteor in the back garden - next to the broken deckchair and the knocked over bins and in-between bites of October apple harvest - I first thought it was a light bulb. Perhaps it had dropped out of the streetlamp on the other side of the fence. Then I remembered that light bulbs only work if they are plugged in and it couldn’t be. I put down the core of the apple.

It was warm like a baby and rough like a brick. It seemed homeless and lost cupped in my hands.

It did not belong to me.

So I made a sling out of elastic and blankets and strung it between the gate posts. I leaned with all my weight and aimed up to the darkened sky.

Off it flew, lost again, hurtling for the moon that was half in shadow.

It landed in dark lunar lands and for a few seconds the moon had a tiny glowing beauty spot on the unlit side of her face.

The rock had left a hole in the ground and a trace of silver remained lining the sides of it. Like luminescent butter in a cake tin.

I planted the apple core in the hole. It grew fast and strong. Within a year it was bearing fruit. Apples with the slightest trace of silver on their skin.

Perhaps they glow ever just a little on half moon nights.