Its a pond, an overspill of the bloody wider water full of crocodiles were an african is swimming for his life and people are crawling up the rocks for a safe haven on dry land, the water is wasted, ripe fruit hanging from a blue tree-trunk with Paul Gauguin’s red hammock attached to it unoccupied, the little girl looks surprisingly like me in my childhood in my favourite little yellow dress, wondering if she should swim in these dangerous waters, a fish washed up on the muddy bed of the pond, a sea-horse screaming, a cat on a branch carefully overlooking the scene behind the motherly birthday snowdrops- my favourite flower.
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