Dearest Em,

A note from a number who’s gone on the run.
Fourteen of his digits lie hid, one by one.

I’m two and a bit, but not yet three,
A whisker older than the cub. That’s me.

Find me as a red moon held on a string overhead,
Look for a clock by the toast as you tumble from bed.

I am the curl in a snail’s slow shell,
I am the cool of a teacup, the hush of a bell.

Search the harbour for a hull with paint worn thin,
Spot a captain with shells, his hatband tucked in,
Watch for a salmon mid-leap in a river so old,
Seek out a waypost grown weathered, its stories untold.

I am the climb of a vine, the slow turn of a storm,
I am the branch of a tree as it grows and reforms.

Find a nest, a red breast, where the rowans grow tall,
Hunt for a pheasant in feathers, a crown for them all,
Look near a clapper of stone where the dark waters flow,
Catch a whisper of iron where two roadways go.

I am the spiral the galaxies trace,
I am the hush of a heartbeat as it loses its pace.

Trace a marker half-buried where the heather grows wild,
Knock at a door at a cottage that welcomes the child,
Find a ribbon, a parcel, a tag with a name,
Watch for a glow by the pillow as the day ends its game.

I am the dim of a candle, the slow wane of light,
I am the way memories fade, the soft fall of the night.

And fourteen is only the start of my song.
My tail goes on, dear, all the day long.

Yours, ever,
E.

somewhere between two and three.

P.S. When the fourteen are caught, come back to this letter and whisper the charm:

“Past salmon and storm, past candle and crown,
the lion turns two as the sun goes down.”