Early Morning.

Dawn: in a little house in one of the London boroughs. I was up extremely early, due to jet-lag, and I was looking out of the window of the small room, almost a box room, that I shared with my brother.

As I looked out I could see the small, well-kept lawn that we often play football on. There was no such activity now. Instead, the cooing of pigeons and the melodious trilling of an unseen thrush, were the only hint of life. The lawn was covered in dew, that I knew would feel deliciously cool, but then within a minute would freeze my feet. Before I could even reach the lawn the red, stony patio would have already stolen the feeling from my feet, and left them numb and hurting. The pond, in one corner of the patio, had chicken wire spread across the top of it, to stop the local cats from eating the goldfish.

Chicken wire

Willow Lawn

Patio

The water lily was cramped on the water's surface, and its leaves were sprawled all over each other. A single bloom, in the centre of the pond, was open; a brilliant white, leading down to a rich sunset yellow in the very centre. Water reeds poked through the chicken wire, crumpled, from where a ball had passed through them the day before. The surface was not broken by either the fish family that resided in the murky water, or the frogs that swam at the edges or sat on the lily pads.

Beyond the pond a path branched into three, one fork going straight through an arch, formed by the metal frame of an ancient swing, and the others curling round and leading back, down the sides of the lawn to the house. Past the swing, the path was more-or-less invisible and...