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March afternoon. She unbolts the garage door, goes inside the cold darkness, reaches for a long handled wooden brush propped amongst bundles of hoes, forks, spades, bamboo canes near an old chest of drawers, makes a slow, winding pathway through bags of compost, watering cans, swaying towers of flower pots, seed trays. Last winter's window panes are barely visible.
held in cobwebs
Puts on gardening gloves, turns to the darkest corner where the stored boxes are. Wipes away cobwebby dust, skeletal spiders, rips off brown masking tape, opens them all up one by one, fills black bin bags, throwing out household contents wrapped in last decade's newspaper. Teabags in a once-cherished caddy have turned to dust.
of a rusty tea chest
first shaft of sunlight
Using the whole weight of her body, she gradually pivots the last cardboard box around. Glimpses slow movement on the outside. Soft sound, a rustle like autumn leaves.
Leaves the garage behind. Sunshine. So much lighter now, so much clearer.
British Summer Time
two butterflies rise