She sat on the veranda of a white house not far from the sea. The house had been built some eighty years previously. Its decorative ironwork was showing signs of age. The years of heat and humidity had taken their toll and streaks of rust had started to mar the initial celebration.

On the table in front of her was a Book of Remembrance. She was writing a poem dedicated to a long dead cousin. Its title was:

A World Without Pity

The bell rang its hollow chime

It decreased within the cave

I looked at the sky with its many colours

Morning had arrived

I placed the sun high

And cleared the mist from the valleys

But nothing stirred

No birds travelled

In the Tintagel skies

I touched my hip

And began to emerge

The rough bone

Had bloodied me

But I did not bleed

Which was a surprise 

As others bleed

She closed the Book of Remembrance but did not notice that the ink was wet. It had begun to seep from between the pages staining the cuff of her white cotton dress.

Her thoughts were devoted to England and its passageways of gold awaiting their blue command.

These were the months of the heat.

She killed a languid fly as it had exceeded its lifespan. She often did this as not to disturb the conference of history.

High above a Magnificent Frigate Bird ate a stolen pomegranate as it flew in circles to celebrate .The seeds of the fruit fell and desecrated the steps of the white house with their dyes.

When two streams meet

A river is formed

When two rivers merge

Then one meets the sea

She opened The Book of Remembrance again.The ink had run and the poem was no more.

She did not remember her words but she saw them scattered amongst the shattered seeds.

As she crouched on the steps to retrieve her words the hem of her white cotton dress became soiled turning a carmine red.

Again this invasion was not noticed but she did hear the soft music of the dream trees as she looked towards the sea.