Travelling. I’m a difficult plant to uproot. The clod clings. Getting out of the house and onto the road (train, actually) is hard. I resist. I vow never to go anywhere again that requires a suitcase. Then, finally, I’m up and away, a cup of coffee, a litter of crumbs of soil shed, and flying like a bird. I want never to touch down.

Time gives me vertigo. I try to attach myself to the moment as it spins away, but it’s gone before I can touch it. I experience my life-in-time like cloud formations massing and dissolving. I mean, I’m always wanting to anchor myself in this pattern or that – this past week to life at home without Rowan – but you cannot fix the form; I just create resistance, always behind myself, hanging on to the last thing, and then the last. Yesterday, alone once more, I got to wishing Rowan was with me, but he had already gone again, before I’d even managed to find myself in being with him.

Travelling fast I feel as if I could soar up above all these phases in time banking and dispersing. But I know that soaring is really just another phase.