She is silent, she will never speak, never forgive, never reach a hand, never leave this frozen present tense. All waits, suspended. Suspend the autumn trees, the autumn sky, anonymous people. A blackbird, poor fool, sings out of season from the willows by the lake. A flight of pigeons over the house; fragments of freedom, an anagram made flesh. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves.

j.fowles