Awakened, she called first to ask. To enquire with no ulterior side motive than to say how is the sea and the single shifting sun? How is the young light and are the creatures underground? The asking after looking was argued on an orchard grey green morning, for him. In a wheel of muggy summers light, for her, when moisture was that precious gold used to paint the Madonna's cowl and rain was anticipated like unrequited love, drain flying slanting and cool.

Vicious heat and copper coloured sky ringing incessantly against the mountains inland. No creeping cool to save against a debtors victory. No shadows inside breasts held lightly, then photographed faces and certainly no reaching, evaporating, mist along the cider glass licking smoothness of her arms. Dripping feelings from out of her breast best and lightest dress. She sent him a photograph of her hair. In the deserts of her present hells.

A Dorelia figure modelled against the prettiest substance. Her eyes enclosed and encapsulated in fantasy life wished from here to him. A single point perspective with himself as the vanishing point. This is how she views that. The heat is a pointed male stem but not him. The hoped for rain is women's secrets and all her considerable charms pouring out of her eventually.

As it was, is and in all that's wanted. As it is, for all its disappointments. It was controlled emotion in the stress of others looking. Concerned eviction of thoughts that come as unworthy, and defeatist in this endless blistered heat. Why can't I see me as he does? Seen in a landscape of hills and soft browns. Green and Constable gently folding fields, poets vales and singing yellow daisy lights hanging as wishes for him to pick and dry. Pick and dry.