16

When she got back from the stone circle with an armful of tufted grass, there was a piece of paper on the front door. Came round, nobody home. I’ll be back, maybe tomorrow. Rhys Jones. The note was stuck on with a piece of chewing gum.

She turned to look at what would be the garden. I can’t do this, she thought. I don’t even know what those shrubs are called. I don’t know who Rhys Jones is. How can I protect seven geese from a fox? She dropped the secateurs and the bundle of grass. The sun was already low. Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn, / Indicative that suns go down; / The notice to the startled grass / That darkness is about to pass. Dickinson had seen what she saw now. The homesickness had ebbed. She walked into the living room, poured a glass of red wine, fluffed up some cushions and sat down close to the wood-burning stove. The cigarette she lit tasted like a first cigarette. It grew dark very slowly, as if the light was being sucked out of the window like fine dust. It made her feel a little dizzy. She lit a couple of candles and put three logs in the stove. She had left everything behind, everything except the poems. They would have to see her through. She forgot to eat.