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