Supper is in a pan on the stove.

Hours to mix and blend the flavours.

Food from my garden, and a gentle smugness surrounds me.

An evening of comfort to come.

And a banging on the garden door.

Nobody comes up the garden, the courtyard is easier.

Loud, insistent and not to be ignored.

He is small, dirty and so agitated.

I cannot understand his obvious pleas.

His French, too fast, too colloquial and just, too fast.

Tears of frustration.

A small hand takes mine.

A grasp so fierce.

And an anger at my stupidity.

So we run.

A child so demanding, so forceful.

And I follow.

And I flounder at what I see.

A child in my pond.

Dead.

Face down.

A look to the boy.

A face of despair.

’tis only waist deep, but a killer for a child.

He is so small that one arm is enough.

One heave and he lands on the grass.

Face grey and lips blue.

Keening sobs from his friend.

Climb from the pond , but the hard landing has jolted him and as I gather him up, vomit covers my shirt,

Shrieking, gasping sobs.

And eyes open.

A woman stands before me, told of the accident.

Kind eyes, but work worn face, lined and old before her time.

One son to get help.

One son to get Mum.

One son to live.

Dry clothes.

Wine in hand and supper to follow.

A gentle tap at the garden door.

People.

To shake my hand.

To nod.

Bearded old men.

Battered hats in hand.

Women in outdated frocks.

Clogs on their feet.

So many.

I sit, wine in hand, then realise.

So slowly, it seems a dream.

In my time here, there has been no pond.