I drove to lin

The child is crying into europe’s oldest
lake as I enter his village. A donkey –

listless and drunk, puts his head through the car
window. It is clear from the scent of roads here, that

I am the first traveller since the end of a window-less
winter. The locals must think I have a

radish for a head. Did you
hear she sleeps in the boot of her car at

night? The child – now consoled, walks around
exclaiming his innocence, babbling as the world

around us turns cold and dark. I am worried I show
my age by how I fill up on bread not vegetables and

contemplate my fork under the fingernail moon,
announcing to the floor I am proud of who I have become.

.

Blossom Hibbert

.