Walking around when spring is deserted. All alone the prolific primroses. Anemones from another place vie with black plastic pots. Here there are Hellebores sheltered and warm. Here too the green head rises. Passage of time and change. Nothing of her that will remain but the sound of the wind. Ivy grows into the trees. Pale holly hedge lies still in hope. Here comes the future. Sun finds the space. Except the sad daisies lying in wait. Eager the lawnmower. Slowly the wind raises the boundaries. Slowly the mind reaches out its arms. Slowly the mind clutches to its destiny. Nothing of this will remain in the minds of men a hundred years hence. Words echo through spaces inhabited bu ghosts of the wind and find in conclusion a perishable meaning. Down by the quiet walk stalks the survivor. Down to the blown sea flow the beliefs. Where now the rhetoric where now the failure. Gone to the sea.
This is the sound. The sound of a lonely caravan. Listen to the cockrels crowing their absence. Listen the wind dance the dead ash tree. Here on the boundaries lies the believer here by the wayside soon grows tomorrow. Old apple trees grow hopefully seven. Lichen encrusted and red plastic barren. Dreaming young box trees. Silence arriving. Blown rubber disturbs the propriety of space.
Slowly cream thud as the world is approaching groceries in boxes destroy tomorrow.
In judging quality it isn't enough to look backward at decisions that have already been made. People need to be told that what they're doing is what they're doing.