She is seven years old, sitting on a chair made from a reclaimed pallet, lost in her own thoughts.
    ‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘Do you like this place?’
    She looks up, at him, and then around at the curved wooden walls, the cupboards made from driftwood, the brass logburner, the makeshift kitchen. She nods and says she does like it, yes, but it is not for her.
    ‘Not for you?’
    ‘It's not for poor people.’
    He doesn't know what to say and so he asks, ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘It's cool,’ she says. ‘Cool places aren't for poor people.’

There were three huge paintings on the far wall of the gallery. The one in the middle reminded her of a holiday in Scarborough, back when her and John were just married. They stayed in a flat with a view of the sea; the first morning she'd woken early and watched the sky turn a gentle pink, the waves glinting as the sun lifted itself above the horizon.
    'So, what do you think?' The man next to her half-turned, smiling.

If you start with a see-saw –
quality hanging onto one side
participation on the other –
it will always be a matter
of up and down.

But perhaps both might edge
towards the middle
or find a moment's peace
high in the clouds
or down on solid ground.
 

It happens here: in your stomach – a punch, a shard of glass, an electric shock. It happens here: somewhere behind your eyes and changes the way you see. It happens here: in your heart – break, ache, lift, soar. It is not something you can explain; you can only say 'this is good, and this is not'. Which won't do. People want rules and reasons. They will call you a snob. They will say you are wrong. There is no right and no wrong, you will tell them, it either happens or it doesn't. Stomach. Eyes. Heart. It is not something you can explain. They will not believe you.