Some Time Later.

This place is special.

A wooden deck, a table, a chair.

In one corner a set of chess pieces – roughly hewn from a damaged tree.

On the floor, a blanket.

Dried leaves from the autumn surround the deck, bluebells push upwards under a yellow bush.

Dandelions surround a rusty iron bed frame - where Irises grow from a stone wall.

A bunch of twigs - gathered during the winter - lie where a pillow could. 

And all around, the birds sing.

A woman sits at the desk, she has finished the coffee from the pot on her left.

An empty cup is by her hand - that cup is orange. Her favourite colour.

She can still taste the coffee on her lips, her tongue, and when she swallows her throat remembers.

She is writing.

She planted the bluebells, she made the chess pieces, and in the summer she sleeps on the iron bed.

The rust doesn’t trouble her.

She loves the dandelions.

When they transform she will use them to check the time.

One o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock, now.

The time is always now.

But she is writing about the past as she is unable to do anything else.

It is the only thing she knows for certain.

The future will be some time later.