The endless river flows. Since the end of April the elderflowers have come, been gathered and gone. Now at the start of September the elder is laden with sprays of berries, heavy droplets the colour of congealing blood. Seven years ago today we were married at Dorchester registry office, with Archie as our page-dog, and our wedding night was spent here at Yalbury Cottage. Much has changed in those seven years (a mirror broken, maybe); Yalbury has new owners, the registry office is no longer where it was, Archie is dead.

Heidi is dead.

As we sat, Alfie and I, outside the old registry office, me lost in thought, Alf laying quiet, a dragonfly performed aerobatics around us, living its brief life in joy. It seemed to be inquisitive, flying around us in tight loops, and the fancy entered my mind that it might be her, in a transitional state before her next life. Maybe she was checking I was alright, or trying to let me know that she was. Researching dragonflies later, it seems that the Southern Hawker is very inquisitive, often behaving the way I had noticed. The fancy remains, though; I have often felt in the months since her death that she was near me, or was ordering events in some way to guide me. It is likely that other people suffering bereavements experience similar things; but, again, who knows where a soul goes after death?

Prosaic happenings become charged with meaning when living with loss; the smell and sound of a bonfire, ashes dancing skywards; watching the summer slowly die. Emotion is on a hair-trigger; an exhausting see-saw of quietude and sudden grief. Sometimes the heart desires rest, to slip from the edge and be free. Sometimes the mind desires solace in thought free from pain.

There is a train, moving slowly, gently rocking, the comforting smell of dusty upholstery. There is a destination, soon to be reached. There is sunlight, summer-warm and autumn-gold. It is blown in through the open window on the breeze that swoops down from the hills through which we are travelling. There is a sense of waking after sleep, refreshed. Alf is with me, but otherwise the carriage is empty. The land also appears empty, but there is a peace, and there is a sense of presence, many presences, not visible.

There is a station, and the train stops. We alight. The train leaves and we stand on the platform in the settling quiet. A woman with a mass of golden curls sits on the bench at the other end of the platform. She stands and walks towards us, a small white dog trotting beside. No words are spoken, but I know she feels no pain; sickness no longer torments her body. We clasp hands, turn and walk together out of the station, along a white track by the endless river. Others join us as we walk. My mother and father walk together; she has no heartache now, he has no guilt. Michael walks also with us, along with his father; he no longer feels burning self-hatred and the pain of rejection. They also are reconciled.

The white track slopes up, into the smooth green hills. We walk towards the skyline, and suddenly the sea is below us. Sheer chalk cliffs stretch away to either side, dazzling white. Behind us the land is green and gold. Before us there is the blue between sea and sky, between the old life and the next. Our stride doesn’t falter; we slip from the edge to be free.