There has always been a meadow. A thin, curving strip of openness stretching away from the back fence. Bordered by woods on either side, dark and terrible in the imagination of a child. The simple gate at the end of the garden like a portal into wonder.
In the summer, scuffs of cloud wander lost across an azure bakelite sky. In the autumn, rain swoops and dances in swirling arabesques over grass that sways like a mermaids hair in an imaginary ocean. In the winter, the falling snow makes goblin faces in the shadows. In the spring the land explodes with colour under thunder-head skies.
It is there, it will always be there, even after it is gone…