Things had been eaten by time: the iron gateposts, foaming with rust beneath peeling paint; the fence, broken and slick with mildew. But the old mill was unchanged.

She crossed the brook, looking down at the ancient wheel, fallen into disrepair long before her time, teeth knocked out by the flow which, untrammelled, now rushed in a torrent beneath the bridge. The sun beat down, shattered to slivers in the running water. She touched the stone wall: warm surface, cold beneath. And then he was there.

Damselfly mates flew end-to-end, fluttering and falling like sycamore seeds. Together they watched the day die, the furnace of the sky cooling from brilliant blue to yellow, red, black until the moon emerged, a fingernail slit in velvet. They drank elderflower wine and ate honeyed bread, the blood and body of summer.

Later, they fucked – hard and urgent, then slow and sweet. They came together, and fell apart. He slept as she clung to him, moment becoming memory, the present receding, willing herself still there.