The itchy threads grating against my skin, the grass tickling my feet where my legs outstretch the blanket, the feeling of summer. It's not exactly up to the standards of the Chelsea Flower Show, but it'll do. There are some courtesy daisies scattered across the grass, along with the odd daffodil over on the bank. It's shabby, and it wears no hiding veil. There is a tiresome air to the soft breeze, as if it has blown over many a time before, without a second look at the place. I suppose you could say there was some inner beauty to it if you looked deep enough. There's the mystical area of wiry branches that hold hands with the ivy, which could drop drastically into the stream at any given time. But it doesn't. It holds up, like a pillar of strength. The sun illuminates it like a dewy spider-web of silk-like strands, and makes the rusted sleepers along the stream look out of place. Then there's the bees, flitting around dopily, doing door-to door visits on the odd daffodil or tulip. Their sonorous buzz rings around the garden and bounces off the house wall, reverberating out to the fences.

From the itchy, prickly heat of the blanket, the grass pokes through it sporadically, pointing their little green fingers at the luminescent, blue sky. The shrill tones of the birds high up in the oak harmonize with the dulcet tones of the predominantly larger birds, and their melodies pierce my ears sweetly. If I were to get up and look at the stream, there would be little water flies surfing the minute ripples of the brook, zigzagging from one bank to the other. The sun would reflect off the water, blinding the water flies every so often, so that they'd appear to jut out of the light or fall onto their backs dramatically. However, I know this, and therefore I do not need to go witness it. Every summer is spent in my garden.