was fresh lit, wash day blue, shrinking shadows to silly sizes like baby vests. Clouds billowed and disappeared like soap suds. By lunchtime the day was bright as a picnic, colours warm as tomatoes. The garden had lots of flowers: dandelions wild as lions’ manes, and dead nettles tall as trees. We filled a basket with dandelions “For wine,” and then, “So they won’t turn into clocks.” I wondered that a flower could become a clock.

 After that the day stretched out like Bendy the rubber toy, longer and longer until tree shapes pointed right up and over the garden wall with bent blue fingers…

 At last, (or was it suddenly?) there came the sorrowful song of evening in the air. The warm grass was damp, the clear dry air turned cool and moist – it was time to go in. Clocks appeared on all the dandelions we had missed.