dark fingers across the homestead

When things got tough I took to cycling. Out in the flat fields of artichoke, lemons, oranges and melon. Persil-white egrets rose from green as I gravel crunched past. By the side of the paths were irrigation canals wing dipped by swallows. I saw none of this. My head was in the spin of the wheels, my heart was in the relentless pump of my legs. My breath. My breath panted for corridors of exit.

Slowing, the dynamo of despair dimming at the slackening pace, reality caught up with me. I was out in the blazing orchards of Spain trying to sap the soul pain with furious motion. I didn't know what I wanted, only to escape the thing suddenly in our kitchen between us. The dark fingers that had entered our home.

I would return, worn out and head sorry. Yet the dark fingers remained tap tap tapping at the door. They would never stop until you left.