Minnie’s letter has just reached me
She is well apart from a heavy cold
Which are all too common
In Upper Slaughter
At this time of the year
Due to its odd geography
A geography that I miss so very much
These are your dangerous days my love
She whispers towards the end of her scented letter
I touch the dry ink and feel the soft pressure
Of her delicate grip as we join our warm hands
And run across the bleak wastelands
That separate us from our decaying dreams