Waging war on the sense of time, they stood side by side overlooking the canal.
It was under the onyx of the sky that she felt something short of everything it is she felt before.
Something devoid of the abiding noise and of habitual taxing palpitations. Something bereft of bad news and that intangible scent of gloom that consumes the grace of all things.
It braced her in its stillness – a something she could not quite decode.
It tapped on our cheeks with every raindrop; splashed out of every puddle and into our eyes.
Even the river bore it in its current.
And it stemmed from every branch and from every root of the fat oak tree.