Grandmother's Garden, Sussex

“Grandmother's garden in June. Roses against the flint wall, absurdly perfect. She's deadheading with those ancient secateurs — click, click, toss into the trug. You sit on the bench with tea in the good china, the cup so thin you can see your fingers through it. A wood pigeon somewhere. The lawn striped from the mower. She tells you the name of every rose like introducing old friends. Peace. Compassion. Iceberg. The particular quality of English afternoon light that makes everything look like it's already a painting of itself.”