Sunday.

Early morning sunshine paints the sycamore seeds a glowing red. Bird song raises the sun. Wind plays with the leaves and grass and flowers through which butterflies dance a chaotic canter. The honeysuckle tree is rich with a thousand flowers, almost open. The ash tree is heavy with a weight of leaves. Foxgloves line the stone walls, made centuries ago by working hands while cats looked on, dreaming of the plump and succulent mice that would make their homes in a labyrinth of tunnels that weave through them now.

It is peaceful quite in the rose swaying, breeze blowing, summer sunshine land of garden.