Elsewhere in the garden the air is filled with fragrance; rose, wisteria and honeysuckle. In other flowerbeds, the plants stand neatly in their own space, not intruding on their neighbours. The soil there is weed-free and every plant knows its place. Many people wander through the old royal gardens on days when the sun shines. But no one comes to this corner.
I suppose it was the lack of order that drew me. I like bright colours and sweet perfumes but the riotous, unchecked growth beyond the silent fountains caught my eye. Others hurried by, looking for order and colour. Not me. I squeezed through the rusted, wrought-iron railings and trod on uncut grass, feeling dew soak my sandals and feet.
Behind me rose the rusty iron fence with sharp-edged stingers and needle-like thistles to deter the faint-hearted. On three sides, brick walls rose, partially concealed by the fecund growth of thin branches, narrow leaves and great sprays of purple-hued flowers. In the centre of the uncut grass, stood a single, stone seat; I sat upon it, marvelling at the sights and scents around me.
The breeze moved gently in the sheltered spot, making the long tendrils of flowers bob and weave, like slow-moving fireworks. Purple was the colour that I recognised first but as I gazed, I saw the varying shades; pink, lilac, violet, mauve, lavender, fuschia, magenta and white …
This is an extract from one of the stories in my recently published collection, The Butterfly Tree. This is part of my Dragonscale Diffusions collection!
For a limited time only this book is just 99c!
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© Freya Pickard 2020
