Mabon

Danielle Marie Cahill

We choose three glowing apples in the greengrocer

and take them home: one for each of us,

polished scarlet.

I slice them horizontally, so when I open the flesh

you both see the pattern of seed stars in the centre.

A gasp,

and you reach out with curious hands to touch them,

picking out the pips with pointed fingers.

You create celestial shapes on the tabletop,

arguing over one stray seed although it is mine.

We bite into the fruit, careful to leave behind

the Pleiades: joyful sisters shining in the core.

They hold us enraptured in Mabon sweetness.

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