The garden waited. Behind the yew hedges, beyond the crumbling brick wall, within sight of the ancient house, under skies both heavy and light, the garden waited for someone to save it. Beneath the soil, now emptied of any nourishment, seeds huddled, asleep or worse, and still the garden waited.
First there were the birds that flew over and settled to pick at the bones of the garden. Then the small creatures dug and scrabbled until bulbs were gnawed raw and white. Finally, the larger animals came, deer and dog, a lost soldier, shoes worn to paper, a farmer broken by blight. These animals were hungry too, their ribs pressed sharp against their fur, their fingers frost-tipped, their eyes as empty as the garden had become.
Years passed with nothing to show in a land once so enchanted that bees and butterflies slept safe in the blossoms after their nectar was gathered. Here was a place that defined beauty in petals and leaves, scent and sight, hue and touch. Now, no matter the trowels pressed into the earth, the care taken with each tiny seedling, the garden would not wake. It was waiting for one pair of hands, one heart, one fine and tender soul to rouse it and release its magic.
The garden waited. Behind the yew hedges, beyond the crumbling brick wall, within sight of the ancient house, under skies both heavy and light, the garden waited for someone to save it. Beneath the soil, now emptied of any nourishment, seeds huddled, asleep or worse, and still the garden waited.
