To the Valleys

Over the hills in this fulsome of seasons, the rains trigger migration of hartebeests in cravats. With dress suits and readings of love patient, love kind, they sniff over the morning for griddle-pan scones, white-veiled receptions, soft hands at their temples. Ah, all those summers a-toiling they bring back to the valleys as rings in

I do. Do you?

Remember how your grandfather stumbled and then fell into the garden pond. You wore a suit, freshly pressed – a strange look from your usual garb of sweat and day creased shirts. I in a satin dress of peacock colours, never wanted to be conventional, but my bouquet was of white arums from the garden.