The conference room chair is hard. The feel of clear river water over stones. Silence stretches across the polished veneer of the table. A kingfisher in the mind’s eye. Every exchange is guarded. Hands touch briefly over a bowl of fresh, sweet berries, a distant warmth. Small errors and deliberate misreadings. A slow, toxic runoff. The dog’s deep sigh in its sleep by the hearth. This engineered distance. A constant chill beneath the skin. This quiet connection. The easy breath taken after climbing a long hill. Everyone endures the clock’s pull to five. The day settles.

What do you want to hold?
The bruise or the blossom?

Paul Conneally
20th November
2025