A child’s swing hangs from the branches in a walled and shaded corner. A moment’s curling breeze sways ripening fruit, lifts leaves, ruffles ferns and lilies, clusters long underlying grasses.
A scent of something wild and beautiful, like the passing breath of hope lingers in its wake. Two windows from a far house blaze briefly, twice, in whiteness, and shoot late afternoon sunlight back at me here in the shadow, a someone opens and closes them.
In a language not my own, a woman’s voice calls out the name of a girl I recognise from a faded photograph. Three times she calls, with a breath between each naming and the girl, who was nowhere, darts from a tree behind her.
She places her hands over her mother’s eyelids and giggles. She turns around to face her, smiles the smile only shared by children, raises forefinger to pursed lips and turns and skips to the voice of a folk song in the distant house beyond. The song that anoints our garden with love.