A contrapuntal

The day begins with yoghurt and muesli in a stranger’s kitchen, air thick with a rare summer heatwave and my discomfort over her ‘tidying’ my room while I was out. A message from you: here, waiting, parked by canal. But no hurry, I’m told, you have sandwich and crisps to consume. In my windowless room at the very top of the house, I search for clothes suited to clammy air, the suggestion of rain, and a climb up Stoodley Pike.