The garden

As I walk up the crumbling tarmac drive, the frosty morning chill rushes up from the north like an Arctic Skua coming in to nest.

The early day smells come wafting around my nose, entangling it in a bundle of rose pollen and dew-smothered grass. Turning to the right to escape the overpowering sea of smells, I notice for the first time the towering fern dominating the landscape. Its delicate leaves spread over the squirrel-trodden ground like feathers. Behind it, glinting with dew, lies an overgrown huddle of spiny bushes reaching like tentacles over the rotten fence. Situated to its left, is a pillar-like tree pointing proudly towards the sun. In the middle of the tree rests a large hole and I half expect a midnight-black woodpecker to come flying through the undergrowth towards it at any moment.


Unfixing my gaze from the unusual scene, I again turn towards the front of the house where a panel of plants basks in the sunlight. Two light green bushes take over the front, carelessly discarded twigs at their feet. A hint of maroon diverts my eyes from everlasting greens as a small bush waves wildly in the wind, caught in its grasp. The tiny dots of red piercing the picture appear to me in full detail, their succulent-looking flesh dragging me closer.

A mangled bush stands forlorn at the far edge of the garden, its twisted bony fingers pointing out from the gnarled, knobbly bough enclosed in the centre. No leaves spread from its branches and only bare twigs surround its unfortunate trunk.

Dragging my eyes away from the pitiful sight, I trudge up the stone steps to the gleaming white door and the promise of comfort.