A small pittance of a birdbath; a lovely mottled green set in stones of red and white. They were artfully arranged, reminiscent of a Feng Shui design, but the jungle beyond dispelled any thoughts of Harmonious Spaces. The tiny garden plot was effectively a miniature jungle, two foot weeds sprung next to daffodils, vegetables sprouting between the two.

It’s been nearly…

Like those who have come before, and all those who will come after.

We look at a tree and see the leaves, she sees the branches underneath.

It’s over, isn’t it? Really over.

I’ve reached the edge of reason. Where do I go from here?

He had watched the years slowly take the colour from her hair and face, but this queer light had returned it, and she looked young again. Young, save in her eyes, which had always seemed so ageless. Now all the years of the sea were contained in their deep greyness, the patterns there were older than the world and older than the mists.

When all that is left to us are memories. They are not faded, but vivid and fresh as the day they were conceived, and painful and bitter.

Slowly, deliberately, she unfastened the ribbon and slid her hair loose with wooden fingers. This was her ritual, it freed the song from her.

Think not overly much upon your fondness of anything; possession, creature, or human – for if you do you will begin to cling to it, and your eyes fill with tears for imagined hurts and sorrows, and your love will turn to grief in your heart.