31 October 2013
Spring is nearly summer and the air tonight is so soft. Walking after dinner, Emma wants to show me a bit of local magic that she’s recently discovered. We meander down side streets that I haven’t yet explored, and then we turn a corner. There it is. My wall of sleeping vines, transformed. A great green field of ivy breathing softly in the moonlight.
On the adjacent wall, new graffiti covers old. The words that once spoke to me are faded, historical; part of the tangled pattern but perceivable only in memory.