Dream Home
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Everyone in the village knew Boris was a little short upstairs, but no one would ever mention it, beside the fact he was so big and strong, he was always willing to lend a hand. Occasionally one of the more daring local boys would ask, "Why do you keep extending the patio Boris, in such a glorious garden?", or. "Hey, nutter!" But he never took any notice of such jibes, he was so happy.
Boris spent most of his nights chopping. It didn't bother anyone too much. What did amaze everyone was where he managed to find them, these 'Unhappies' who were all too willing to put themselves in the care, and under the soft gentle hand of Boris. They were always grateful and always left presents. But their most precious gift of all was when they returned the following spring and summer, pushing their petalled faces, smiling and world weary toward us, telling silent stories of adventures below.
Jack returned to his box and finally slipped into sleep. Dreams covered him. Dreams of not being able to escape, trapped by clocks and watches, ticking loudly and quickly. Strange dreams.
The morning came, and with it Little Mary, shaking him from his sleep. "Come on Jack", she whispered in her breathless squeaky voice, "time to go to the garden. Nanny's cooking breakfast and we'll be in deep, dark trouble if we are late".
Gardening consisted of removing any new weeds, sweeping the leaves, planting seeds and bulbs over the new lots. I'm sure you can imagine the needs of a lively garden through the changes of season, whether natures or fashions. The children always began by integrating the freshly ploughed soil into the overall landscape, nothing should look out of place, all harmony and poetry. Boris often spoke of the poetics of space, his garden a symphony, the orchestration of colour and light. How grand it all was. While they worked they sang their little song: