As you pass by this field, this cottage, its unkempt sceac, its thistled front yard, its dirt floor, where the bachelor Leo lies deep in his sleep, you know you had no choice. This pram, this lane, you have been here before. Or maybe it is just an old story, grown familiar through the retelling. Maybe it’s all a dream.
You steer a steady course, the wheels either side of the lane’s rutted centre. Passing by the beech where the buzzard roosts, you walk faster, wheel faster. Into potholes, over bumps, a wheel-ya weila waile. There was an old woman who lived in the woods… You hum it without knowing, because it is your song.
Off in the distance, you imagine you hear another rhythm, insistent and steady as a heart: weila weila, weila weila. But no, it’s too early. No trains run at night. Your imagination is running…
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