Go to the end of your street, cross the Rickmansworth Road and take the footbridge over the Colne, where reflections glimmer through the fringe of trees.
Samantha feared, in guilty moments, that she loved the lakes more than she loved her father. Today, on their usual monthly circuit, her father hobbled slowly, clutching his stick, and she looped her arm through his.
Now it’s too late for us to return, though something calls us back with the force of an obsession. A bloodied horizon dulls gradually into night. We seem so separate from that fire lowering itself daily into absence.