Deep among the poppies, I seek my inspiration. Sunshine effuses opium, ideas dart like swallows.

Typewriter loaded, often idle - writer's block, I tell my husband Tom. He says the lockdown has derailed me, and he's right.

Cutting through the flowers, he comes: muscular, purposeful. Married. Not called Tom.

Heart beating, dropping to my knees. Nylon snapping, the firm thrust, heat exploding through red petals. Pushing back, eyes bleared over, panting, 'No, don't—' The hasty withdrawal, grunt and splash, white streaking scarlet blooms, hot perfume laced with ammonia, and salt.

Ambling home, pages blank. Ideas darting, lines stitching the white.