My Garden by Hannah

My Special Place: My Garden…

When, when I look, look back, I find, I recall wonderful memories and images, thoughts of the past, but none as so special as the ones of my garden. My garden is a whole world in itself, like a book that’s never been read but everybody knows the story. And I am going to read you that book, tell you that story, my story.

When I enter the garden, great quantities of colour and light flood my bewildered eyes. I look around at the blossoming flowers; the roses, their pink petals structured beautifully, and the foxglove, quite risky, almost poisonous in their ways. I also see tiny daises, dotted freely on the lush, green grass, and the fresh magnolia tree, in the corner. I wave ‘Hello’ to one of my neighbours as they peer out of one of the archaic windows of the old houses that surround the garden. I live in one of those houses. It’s not the grandest of houses, but it’s home, and it’s nice to be able to visit the garden whenever I want. I visit it almost every day, on my way to school, when I go to the supermarket, any time, whenever I want to. But the best thing is coming home to my garden; however I’m feeling, it raises me up.

Sweet sounds meet my ears when I walk down the rocky path that leads through my garden; the sound of the restless breeze moving the knobbed tree branches back and forth, and the sound of the bumble bee humming merrily to itself. And, as I look, and hear, all the little birds singing harmoniously in the trees, and the mellow shouts of children playing, I think to myself how queer, and also how miserable the world would be without sound. But, but I suppose, some people don’t know what sound is, they cannot hear. They cannot hear the little birds, or the children, oh, how dismal and colourless their life must be!

However, most probably, in the future, in about 200 years, or so, my little garden will be no more. The whole world will be in the ‘Space Age’, and no one will care anymore. They won’t care about the roses, nor the foxglove, or the magnolia tree, or bees, they just won’t care, they’ll just forget. My little garden will die, but the thoughts of it will live on in my mind, in your mind, and in everyone else’s who have read this story. My story.

By Hannah