I was up very early and followed June up the darkened road, overtaking her where the bridge grows a forked tongue. I crept up moving stairs while a reincarnation of Florence Nightingale handed out lamps on the lower deck. After a stop off in lee of a giant’s armpit I found myself in a photo album being peered over by people with sunsets in their eyes. I talked at length to the old king and then left beside a man with an elephant head; I carried his suitcase rather than his trunk and we talked in Italian before the local bus recounted its first trip though a snow covered landscape. When the barefoot dancers emerged from a flat white sky I dedicated a love poem to the demise of Shanklin Pier – June came home later with wet feet.