We braved ferocious thorns to pick luscious tayberries. Petal-drenched in butterfly sunshine, liquescing, mouths laughing crimson juice and our pricked fingers dripping sweetness.

You again, years later: defeated, damaged, devastated by life. You buy homemade tayberry jam. Don’t recognise me. Don’t remember.

But you will, when you taste summer’s promise.

Deborah writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.