The sun fluttered on the leaves of the trees that formed the boundary of the garden. Name not known,
unnecessary to the beauty, Gustav's Beech Grove would not serve the memory well, yet the
bark of those ones she came upon much later would very well serve the memory.
The hours up to noon were spent at play when the house would become full of characters and
spaces to explore opened.
The afternoon was spent underneath the blackcurrant bushes or on the garden brush, a horse, of course.
Or, treasure was dug. Holes not too deep. The wash pole marked one spot. One shell marked another.
Each day revealed the colours there; the whole palette, the broadest bow that moves from place to place
the weather moves the spectrum the greyest shades belong to the densest cloud.
Those days when her sky was a flat grey, no sun to seek out depth on the pavement, or soften the rough
red walls of the houses, nor the sharp edged dark green hedges.
The black square of our front room looms as we push open the dark green gate. Only the faded
pastels of the Hydrangea's old flower heads lend a gentle tone to the suburban drab of our
late March afternoon.
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