You’re in the park and she is skipping happily along, her little hand in yours; but you have lost the way inside the hornbeam maze, have gone too far and now the fading light gnaws at a rib of birch beyond the fading path. Trees shake bare fists and flailing limbs up to a judgement-day sky bleeding fire and gold as if to say: I could not do enough but now there’s nothing left to squander in the name of love. Of course no angels will appear with keys or horns, no end’s in sight but all of this is yours.