M is for Moon, above the nectarine, blurred in February warmth, alone except for us. Childhood word, a permanent object, friend for life, unlike the long words experience expects: meteorology, maximisation, managerialism. Here today, gone tomorrow, while moon whitens our tile roofs, our tin gutters, our moody windows. Sitting in the garden round midnight, my mind’s maddening google day calms like a cooling breeze. N is for Nectarine, nonchalant where summer’s concerned. I really wondered would it ever do anything, watching it suffer in bygone heat. Now its leaves make peaceful tidal shapes and its well-watered branches rest all night.