We did not build a bridge over the lake in the house grounds, nor did we return to the place where we first kissed, at the merging of north and south roads. Instead, there is now a wrought steel fence surrounding the lake, and the roads out of this place are unmaintained, cracked, broken. I sometimes lay flowers at the side of the road, close to your favourite view of the rolling fields. The fields are the only colourful place, dense with vibrance under late sunsets. The stiles are uncrossed, simple lines deconstructed, missing the weight of your arms from when you used to lean, your eyes gleaning the golden depths. Looking for something that cannot be fathomed, amongst the many faces of the sunflowers turning towards the moon. The crows, which dip and dive, have croaked their answers thick enough to hang like mist despite the warmth of the evening. The air is heavy and ripples the surface of the bright fields.