I hear you (you are speaking to me) I am lying beneath an open window in my brother’s old room. Your slightly lisping voice scratches my inner ear. Your words enter me. But I can’t hold on to them and they flow out the window into the superheated air above the valley, hanging for an indecisive moment above Tubbenden Lane before streaming over the roof of the house on their way back to you, to Heptonstall, ahead of me. When I get there some days later, will you speak to me (again), dressed in Yorkshire earth, wearing the moors like wool to fend off the sometimes harsh winds.