we made a homemade apple pie. this glorious terrible ruin.
deep in summer when rainwater sits hot in july puddles swamped in the north west of scotland. and it is swelling like a balloon in the oven window. its light revealing the flaky pastry. this invasive, unrelenting beam. like a spaceship casting its light on the deep empty holes of the moon. revealing a delicacy that will soon come and soon go. brushed from shirts to shed like wool on the floor. i mourn our sweet pie child. how its life momentarily made us full. now it has shrivelled to death.
after three days in the fridge.