I sat, squashed between a row of gardening books, on a shelf in my library. June got me down instead of a book and began to read; before she had finished (I hate endings) I showered in the garden and then took the dog out, me on a pogo stick and her on a mobile trampoline. We came out from the underpass with sore heads and on my return to the copper kettle house I diligently squeezed myself into a tin can to work. June sat with Poppy on a row of sardines: they collectively dreamed of being architectural columns holding up the widest viaduct in Western Europe. I thought they should be lighthouses shining vertically up into space - as I thought this a raven landed in the very centre of the amphitheatre and made a sunken galleon out of an electric violin and a piece of brain coral.
June wanted to go out, pulling behind her a collection of kites who had grown too old to fly. I stayed in the Nautilus tying string together before leaving the inverted bridge (sometimes called a rainbow reflection) for a short while in the company of Joan of Arc and the goddess Athena (I didn’t find out until later that they were one and the same). I came home a long time before June, talked to a dinosaur who was thinking of taking the vows and then to a nun who wanted to be a warm blooded reptile. Apollo and Artemis brought June home, I removed the skeleton that had been transformed into a drum kit from the boot of their car and then patted the black hole which will eventually swallow the entire solar system as if it was a small dog.
I came down from my tree bed, several hundred feet up in a Sequoiadendron, and found June under a duster almost as big as the room itself. I drew a door and went through; on the wall was a portrait of Vittoria Colonna, who I pretended to know - I discussed her poetry with the artificial coal fire and then resolved not to bathe for the rest of the year. Outside the distant hills had crept nearer during the night, I calculated they would be touching the unopened window by the end of the month, and the sky seemed to me to be smiling to itself. I foolishly stated that it might end up blinded like Polyphemus even though as a small boy I had been promised in marriage to an elderly sheep. June walked to town using several different routes simultaneously, she arrived at various times.
June wanted a day of baking gem stones and locked me out of the kitchen. Before working as a telegraphist for the Union Pacific railroad in the Eighteen Sixties I went out into the garden to talk to a number of Boer War soldiers busily reenacting the Siege of Mafeking in the rabbit hutch (the rabbit having moved into a penthouse apartment on the South Coast). One showed me a model of the USS Nautilus he kept in a tropical aquarium and then extolled the virtues of breeding veil tail guppies - in response I showed him a picture of myself as a young child in the company of a group of dog headed men. June came upstairs after lunch with a slice of cake she had christened Marie Antoinette - I went down later with an empty plate I christened Madame Roland.
June spent the night on the floral patterned carpet while I stayed underneath; we met again while pasted to the wall under a William Morris wallpaper (to be honest I thought it was too intricate and was quite pleased when the council added double yellow lines even though we can no longer stand in front without getting a ticket). I had to rush to town like a Casey Jones shopping trolley and then June and I went to the city we had previously likened to a medieval mouth: two strangers played rhythm and blues on its medieval tongue while I spied on all the figures below through its equally old eye - I was surprised to find that one of the figures was June herself, looking like she had been spread over a cobbled street and then burnished to a soft sheen.
I got up inside an old fashioned camera and then exposed myself; luckily no one was looking. I had a bath in a cup of tea while June showered in coffee; this part of our relationship has never changed. I carefully smeared myself in brown sauce and laid on a bag of chips moments before June went out hand in hand with a petrol driven lawn mower. I followed later with the tentacles of a red giant starfish still attached to my Richard the Lionheart front. After a meal of a robot’s teeth in a concrete bap we both came home through the teddy bear swamp (by the rocking horse bridge) and I wrapped myself in the blanket of my studio; the movement of my hands forming a smiling face in a time lapse photograph of an electric arc.
I had my weekly early start, getting up with the inaugural journey of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway in my head, and looking out at a Shepherd’s Warning sunrise with the remains of summer still stranded on the door step. The step poked out its tongue and then superimposed it on top of a collection of Victorian mourning photographs, and this despite the fact that I was metamorphosing into a South American sun god and the house was built in the time of George the Fifth - although my astral plane neighbour believes it is actually Edwardian and somehow got lost when the multidimensional winds changed. I went out into the calm lands, stopping to say hello to the ancestral river god and climbing the playing cards steps to commune with a darkened nature in the unlit loft.