Sally O’ Malley had one silly folly that kept her from doing her job. For years she had swooned and her heart had ballooned at the vision of Porcupine Bob.
On the hills and the moors and the fells and the craggy steepsides, everything was snow. The farms were lost, the roads wound into nowhere. The Viking lakes were buried far below.
The summer was as long as a field full of strawberries. And the wheat smelt warm and dry. And the mouse who had long been swinging on a stalk, looked up at the endless sky.
The dolphin soars out of my arms as if I had dreamt it and dives through the pavement and disappears down, like a laughing, blue clown, to invisible oceans below. So I carry on walking.