White divorced Christian lady or mother, despondent with waking up alone. Would swap corporate suits, high heels and airconditioned offices for the cries of newborn lambs, the smell of rain on the newly ploughed lands, the feeling of freedom, sun and wind as she rides her horse. She wants to share more than just a bottle of wine. To top of page Dan Wylie Woman in a train England lies stupefied in its greenness. Wet roofs, like greased sleepers, unzip along tangential roads.
Fat cattle apply damp muzzles to upholstered rye.
But nothing can mask the pain that clambers through this woman's frame. What madness or bramble is raking its barbs through her veins, what conscience or cancer that can't keep still, won't sleep, I cannot tell. She keeps unfolding across our table shaking dailies, but finds them unreadable. Her blonde curls hiss thinly in a halo of nerves. Her linen mouth ruckles shut, a bag sweating with perils or griefs.