A picture of himself, in silence, on a flat sea, a raft of birds beside the boat, and the only sound the knock of his spoon against the edge of a tin of food.

But he knows, as he nears the sea defences, sees the panels moulded from the shredded blades of old wind turbines. He would never do that to the men.

Not with the chance he’s been offered, now, to steer the giant city berg.

It will be historic, he knows. I am the best man for the job. And it will make us rich.

The lights of the dock in the falling light.

But the silence, he thinks. The silence.

POTATO WATER

The sound of vegetables being chopped.

He found the boy in the garden. Curled up like a millipede in the leaves.

The boy was in fever, and sang a song, and talked about his little brother, and a missing dog.

Gone only to collect vegetables; but he brought back a child. There is a fairy tale I remember about that. That my Awa used to tell me.

If I am asked what it is I love most about my husband I say the smell of soil on his hands.

I think if I bit into him he must have the taste of fresh vegetables.

Every day he goes. His garden. That he has dug out at the base of the filtration mound. Rich soil, he says. And moisture. We pretend not to think about why.

Every day he is amazed that no one has stolen the crop. Does not understand how others are not growing things for themselves there too.

It is a filtration mound, I say. And he narrows his brow in bafflement, and rubs his hands, which I think is what pushes the scent of the soil into his skin.

There were butterflies in the rushes today, he tells me.

There are thick white grubs in the earth.

A flame lit, and a pan put on to boil.

~

Drink, I say. Three days now. Nothing but potato water.

The warm steam smells of soil, as if my husband’s in the room.

How is he? he asks when he comes back from the garden.

He is thin, the boy. A collection of poles.

~

They followed the dog out of the city. This is what I understand. The dog they had found (and this is my make-believe, but who knows, I may be right) by the bins of a restaurant, when they were stealing the half-used blocks of soap, and part-empty bottles of expensive alcowash, miniature pouches of tooth powder. To sell and to swap with a child’s bright way with business.

It was love at first sight. The little brother and the dog. They were both scruffy, and moody, and never behaved. Again, that is my imagination.