He was passionate about the walk in the garden. There were blues, with tinted whites and burning reds, lightly pastel yellows and I know him like the back of my hands. I remember him in violent mauve like the hydrangea growing in his backyard years ago or the reflection on his glasses as he focussed too hard on something. No other person could have loved me the way he did. The stone laden Malmaison. Burnt Norton.
Time present, and time past: are both perhaps present in time future.
The vines draped. I want to be. I want to but you never told me how to. Every soft steps into the heart of the garden where the fountain cascades, clouds march as something in me anticipate the clockwork of beauty. One second the colour's all there, the next, everything is monochromously dull.
And time future, contained in time past.
