Here and there between the pavers little colonies of grass have sprung up. One in particular reminds me of schoolyard days, filling Mums old stockings with dirt and seeds, pasting on goggle eyes and a texta smile. Smiling myself a few days later as I pat the bouncy soft spiky green hair of the grass head man.
A daisy leans its head casually out of the wire fence frame. Another plant further down has twisted and bent itself in and out of the loops, clinging stubbornly to this world.
On the pavement, smashed petals of green glass scattered beneath the bobbing heads of waxy leaves in the same hue of Stella Artois.
As I turn the key in the front door lock I can already smell the scent of pine needles drifting towards me from the back of the house.
A little dishevelled, a little mangled, a perfect bloom nestles up against its awkward sister.
Streaks of mauve and purple. The buds dark with fine white lines, small buds below amongst the fanning green spokes, above are those that stretch themselves up above the crowd. On the edges the flowers fan out, light mauve petals with dark gradient blended streaks in their centres. As a collective they bob their head as one to the bouncing breeze.
Water evaporates slowly from the skin. Tired beneath the sun’s glare my eye deceives me, the building, tall, crisp and cream, slides backwards in front of still fluffy clouds on deep bright blue. I can just perceive the grey smear of my eyelashes creating a blight upon the scene.