Plymouth, 29th October 2001

I watched a solitary bee collecting pollen , the little orange sacks on its legs loaded with its industry. The scent of lavender was strong and I could hear the sound of the sea carried on the breeze. I was lying there on the grass imagining a man walking across the sand, he'd walk up the cliff path and come and find me. Without a word he'd lie down next to me, link my fingers with his and we'd close our eyes. I was wearing a loose white dress that moved gently across my skin with the breeze; it felt as soft and light as a butterfly landing on my shoulder.

I knew it was you.

The bee, its work done, flew high and out of sight across fields and moor. I thought I would see it, joining a swarm and finding its way home. Dreaming about bees is sign of good fortune; as hard as I might, I never remember my dreams.