There's an apple tree in our garden - in the summer, I loll in the shade of its kindly foliage - I put down The Owl Service, imagining a girl made from flowers -
I look up at the wavering lacework of twigs and leaves - a warm breeze blows across the sheltered garden - I'm half asleep - I can feel each blade of grass against my skin -
Every other year, this venerable tree brings forth a rich crop of apples - the fruit weighs down lichened branches - early each morning, I see yet more windfalls, marvellous globes heaped up like a plundered hoard -
So it was this year - but last night, an Atlantic storm swept over Purbeck - grave heads in TV Studios had issued warnings - visuals showed cruel swirling masses of air - there were shrill prophecies in the Daily Express -
I'd lit a log fire in the snug - I flung fir cones into the pulsing flames - You Tube clips about Travis Walton diverted me - outside The Old School House, the wind gathered strength - heavy rain fell from the troubled sky - in my dreams, the chimney boomed with voices -
The next morning, I looked out of our bedroom window - the lawn was strewn with apples, torn from the tree by the storm -
Later, Anne and I gathered up the best of the apples, filling two large wicker baskets -
The apples left behind lay nestled in the damp grass - they were like abandoned dreams, I thought - beautiful, yet bruised, pierced by cruel beaks -
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