A crop top and baggy pants. The perfect garden wear for midsummer gardening. In the heat of day, out she marches into the garden with pruning shears in hand.
The fox lingers.
At the age of seventy-something, she knows how to work a crop top
but not a set of pruning shears. The holly bush, that noblest of evergreens, is
about to experience a personal apocalypse.
With thick garden gloves and a grandiose sweep of her arm, she
dethrones the holly bush snip by snip.
A blackbird offers silence.
A church bell tolls.
Exhausted by the trauma, overwhelmed by the heat, the holly bush is reborn as the living dead. She picks its crown off the floor and shoves it in the
brown garden recycle bin. Now she can have an uninterrupted view of her communal garden from her one bedroom flat.
Later on, when her neighbours voice concerns, she’ll spin
reality with all the skill of a spider. She’s accomplished at blame and drinking champagne.
The fox lingers...