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Embossed
When he was released from Stalag Eight B he sold shoes. He races along country lanes. He races the wind as it pounds a disorganised rhythm, the beat rattling his car window and flushing vermin from the fields. She attends to the day: buys one packet of almond crème biscuits in a pastel embossed tin. She traces the bubbled harvest scene. She moves the floral settee under the bay window. She moves it back. She finishes the last crossword. When he returns dinner has passed. They climb the scrubby heath to the highest point, away from the dense regiments of trees. He draws a constellation in the air, the striking horns of Taurus. We’re getting on, she says. He sings into her hands, his voice slipping away between her fingers.
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