Your name is carved in the high vaulted arches in Monsal Dale where the viaduct runs, trackless, still. It is woven into the river, meandering, finding its slow rhythm in a wide plain, lying with the cattle. It is spoken in the wind, by the wings of swifts, caught in the trees and on every familiar track, played, replayed. Like the summer heat, cupped and held in this green bowl, you can never be absent, because you have been so present. And here I am, a guest. Why is my name not known, as yours? Not spoken with love in…