Negotiating a rusted bolt, she teeters momentarily.
My hand is clammy in hers - it’s too warm for the time of year.
A bramble swings for the skin above her red wellies before I can stamp it down.
She trips and I pull her into the air. My daughter dangles: ligaments stretching, time too.
I lower her back to the sleeper.
Her steps are more purposeful.
She dismounts, beaming. I sense it rather than see it, tears blurring my vision.
We are here now, walking in step to somewhere.