The garden was crispy in its death. Deep fried by nature's orb-shaped oven until sharp enough to nip at your toes if they didn't burn first. Nothing but beige blades and crusted earth far beyond its final gasp, mimicked by the wilted plant that drooped down the terracotta sides of a neglected pot. Life was sepia, colourless and dry. Turning my coffee bitter as I watched the neighbours lawn drink from a spitting sprinkler…

I'm tired of writing about gardens and lofting beautiful things so I thought of all the dried lawns that appear over summer. I have a lot of plants that come into my possession to die so this seems apt. And while everyone's lawn perishes there is always someone who's lawn glimmers with a budding freshness. 

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