After a week of wet, the garden has returned to luscious green. Grass springing up beneath my feet. Peas and beans twining their ways up the poles in the vegetable patch. Cabbages bursting their bounds. Beetroot ripe for the picking. At the top of the garden, my Dad’s wildflower patch raises banners of rainbow hue, blowing in the breeze. The sweet peas bless the air with their fragrance. As I pass by the border, there, in the heart of a lupin, a diamond glows.
The playing-field was mown last week. Dry grass still lies piled in rows. Yet the daisies are back again, white stars shining. By the swings and between the goalposts the earth shows through, a threadbare patch of green. Trodden down by excited feet. If you look closely, a fairy ring lies under the trees, where the little folk come and dance by moonlight. Through the gap and over the dry ditch on to the path homewards. The hedges are laden with may-blossom this year, white froth edging the track. Purple grasses wave gently in the breeze, a faint rustle at the edge of hearing. The flowers seem to smile in greeting as I pass by, buttercups gently glowing in the light. A bee bumbles past, weaving from flower to flower. Sipping the honey, drunk on summer.
Shimmering seas merging into blue skies. A fishing boat seems to almost float in the air, the line between earth and heaven barely visible. The warm breath of wind brushes past, whispering a welcome. A curlew soars above, singing greetings. Content, I sit and watch as the sky slowly turns golden, turning my face to follow the light.