Today, the colours of the north are sunlit primaries. The watered hills are verdant, and boxes full of red brick dreams follow their folds. Beneath the tops, rape forms a yellow patchwork with the still-green wheat, while above, skies are blue except where cumulus mountains mass and stretch into the far distance.
My postbox-coloured heart is slit, and beating hard, because once again you’re close, so very close that if I were to reach out, I would surely be able to touch you. Wind pushes along the cloud-ships and sways the youthful corn, till like the sea – and like my boyish, age-old mind – it is a-whirl with white horse motion.
So very close, and yet so very far away.