She sits in the centre. At first she created: she sculpted the mountains and watered the valleys, spun wool and wings and the rhythm of things.

But now her work is done, her children are grown and on their own. She breathes and listens, eyes closed, for she is tired and old. She hears the spin of the seasons, flares of romance and reason, the crash of waves and the gaze of the enchanted, the pain of the eaten and the relief of the sated.

All she needs is to listen, for all they need is to be heard.