June worked again in the morning, we both walked up the leper road before the hand like trees on the horizon had unclenched their fists. After a breakfast spread out on a factory conveyor belt I walked the dog beside what I call the sleeping poet railway track, we began with the intention of writing an epic but returned after only a limerick - a young rustic called Mallory never woke. June came back with a face full of feathers, she spoke with primaries and fluttered her secondaries as the couple next door went in with a prefabricated whale carcass and proceeded to cover it with crosses. June and I are noughts and rolled up the hill to see the elemental children in an elemental garden. I thought in pictures and June spoke in ocean waves: a ship coming in floundered on the rocks.