Ten minutes later after a short car journey, she was walking through her favourite wood towards the meadow, the summer heat shimmering across ripening...wheat fields on the hills and the coolness of the babbling brook breaking any oppressiveness. ‘Ah, this is perfect’ she said to a passing sparrow, which been a sparrow, didn’t reply and swooped into the branches of a nearby bush.‘Off you go girl’ she said slipping the dog’s lead. Sure enough, but not too quickly as though recognising the heat of. Her freckles were not invisible, but as she blushed or took on sun, they surfaced like poppies in the spring. Those were the memories of a longing that was not to be, a fondness that was one sided and faded into the slides of a photographic memory scrapbook. Only to be pulled out when a scent or sight, a sound or some other reminder dragged the dusty book back to the surface. It was long after Scarlet that I met her, and she, like Scarlet was a vision. I had never felt the draw as I had with. More

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