Think of a girl’s hair, like a buoyed sheaf of light as she rides her horse through the heather. Think of the heather, the ling, its wiry, spiry citadels, heavy with scent and bees in the belfry. Think of the honey-barrel bees, bobbing and nudging at the threshold of pollen. Think of the honey, clear at first, then turning to a sparkling crush of butter at the bottom of the pot. Think of a pot of gold launching its rainbow and the rainbow turned to concrete – a footbridge over the motorway. Think of the motorway – a wall of surf, a serpent with fleas, a zip-fastener sewn in the wrong place. Think of a place, any place, and a girl riding, her hair a buoyed sheaf of light.