There’s something whispering at the back of the garden. Past the peonies and the marigolds, across the trimmed lawn and gravel path, through the arches of the tree and beyond the bracken. There, it whispers there. Something sweet. Sinister. The nightingale watches, envious. The robins are terrified. The foxes and the hedgehogs squirm and scurry. What is it saying? You lean closer, willing the breeze to hush and the leaves to silence. What was that? Say again?
The whisper is just audible. ‘Don’t let us catch you dreaming again.’
Paddy Dobson
10th September 2020