By the river’s brown belch Jasmine finds the whitest stone ever seen. It’s opaque though veins and seams glow with light and hidden streams of colour. ‘It’s wet, that’s why it shines’. I zip it up and later put all the day’s stones, like ‘the snake’ and the ‘good writer’ on the cairns at our backdoor. I try and remember the names, but already many of the older piles, each nugget a cipher for a field of time, are lost, or as inscrutable as the lines of Nazca. Who shall puzzle how they align, the choice of shapes, how they incline to the setting sun? Only I will, for a while.