white posts with red eyes flash by with driven monotony the trees a green-grey blur in the early morning mist.
the beat of the wipers poens the door to memories... as we climb into the moutains....
spiralling sprinklers, and hiding before tea.... a bedroom of purple, bbqs for dinner.... lavender patches, the home of master jack, the old black cat....
silver hair like a curtain to her waist... a silver brush, always, one hundred strokes.
the smell of tonic and gin, russian toffees melting on my tongue... jam jars awaiting filling... and a caress, with bony fingers, on a young girls cheek. a smile gentle and knowing. a wave by the honeysuckle gate...
god bless aunty tilly...she made it to ninety three...