when we stopped because there was a group of sheep in front of the car the last thing i expected was her to spring out and in red high heels to photograph them.
kebabs, Sunday lunch, shepherd’s pie, i muttered as we drove on.
she said, they are a herd not a group.
the ceremony was on a pleasure boat. i extracted myself from the proceedings. she sat beside me.
i was looking at the landscape.
she said, i want to go to that little house amongst the trees. at first i couldn’t see it.
close your eyes, she said, imagine it and then look again.
I saw white stucco walls but when i looked they were damp yellow.
the beds were wrapped in plastic. she wiped them with a scarf. we lay down. she curled into me. we dreamed.
she, of ancient and modern Greece. of filming the ruins of a house on a small Scottish island. everything is a metaphor.
i rolled onto my back. i had dreamt of her in my boxers wearing my baseball cap. i looked up at the ceiling and saw her red shoes hanging from the light fitting.
the boat is moving across the lake. slowly. she is moving through the herd. champagne glass in a hand i have held.
i am stood as if at a lonely outpost. she jokes and people laugh. i cant see the little house anymore. she turns and smiles. and mouths, black sheep. i smile. oh little lamb. but in the crowd she is Bo Peep. and i cant think there is anything wrong with being lost.