Sublime

a Mallen streak in his hair behind his right ear.

She can see, between hills, the glint of grey water – the west coast, where once rum-runners came ashore and where nuclear cargo now ghosts along railway lines at night.

The rain begins, not with torrid, dehumidifying power, but a slow, intermittent shower, dysuric.

Soon the pack will be gone, too – north, after the caribou – the centre will close for winter, and she is flying home to England. Her first visit in six years.

‘over the water’