Somewhere snuggled close to the heart
in the cosy cleavage known as Wales…
It was a quiet summer's day, just the
hum of a bee, a robin blowing a delightful orchestration,
and Rosie Thomas ambling her large Jamaican bulk along
the wild garden path.
.... She stopped to pick
a single stem of forgetmenot that grew gregariously
in her overgrown, untidy lawn. The petite plant was
bright with perfect delicate blue flowers. With an exaggerated
flourish of her corpulent arm, she crushed the tiny
petals against the rich ebony of her flared, cavernous
nostrils, tasting with visible joy their sweet fragrance.
Stretching her eyes across the smooth curves of Carn
Wen, the hill that dominated the blissful valley, she
watched the light from the slow arcing sun, kiss and
dance with the river through the laticed boughs of an
Oak before turning towards her quaint farmhouse nestled
snugly on the southerly slopes of the Preseli hills.
Rosie had lived here for forty years. It was home.
......The sudden tyre-tearing
screech of a hard braking car shattered the still air,
echoing harsh reverberations from the isolated country
lane.
......Never having missed
a single event in this uneventful valley, Rosie hurried
as fast as her peculiar gait would allow, across the
garden, across the farmyard, towards the lane.
......At first, all she
could see was a small car parked a little askew beside
the gateway to the lower meadow. Then she noticed an
attractive slim Asian girl standing in the gateway gazing
towards the river. Perceiving the girl’s deep
melancholy, Rosie decided not to intrude, but in taking
a step back she snapped a twig, startling a group of
finches feeding in the hedgerow. They took off in a
cloud of beating wings, berating her with clamorous
noisy beaks.
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