Pilar was in an avenue of short trees

The summer leaves were shading her from the heat of the day

Symmetrical marble benches were positioned opposite each other

Some were being used by people wishing to shade themselves from the sun

Others were vacant

Pilar was running away from a haunted poem

It was called The Landscape Artist

She had written it a few years previously

And it had haunted her ever since

It occurred in her dreams and during her waking hours

Pilar was carrying a handwritten copy of the poem

In the loose pocket of her red cotton dress

She had prayed for its loss but it maintained its presence

An old man spoke to her as she passed him

The poem had fallen on to the dusty path and he handed it back to her

Pilar ran a shower when she returned to her apartment

She stood under the cascading water with the poem in her hand

It was her hope that the poem would be washed away

But no characters were displaced indeed they grew stronger

As soon covered the white tiles of her wet room wall