The ancient Willow tree stood sentry at the mouth of the tarmac drive that once shone its gleaming route, liquorice black and definite, to the house. Now with edges crumbling into the ditch the drive was over grown and potholed, like stale biscuits forgotten in a tin.

I stood motionless in the unseen footprints of my youth beneath this great tree where giant branches draped like patient arms in play, as gates to a castle where childish battles could be fought and won; where as I grew I had lain hidden in deep cool grass, looking up through fluttering green to the watercolour skies and dreamed of love.  It was here beside the gnarled trunk too wide to reach my arms around, that I had sought protection and cover when later love too had proved fallible.

Looking up in the breathless August evening I could see my old home, nestled amongst extensive orchards where trees stood like children, arms aloft in play.  Dark red tiles sat like a warm hat over the pleasing symmetry of this Sussex house, and English roses climbed the sunny whitewashed walls in an embrace before stretching their myriad ways unpruned towards the skies where white trails crossed and petered out into the endless blue. It was as if summer never left this place for even in the depths of winter when clouds like dark fortresses launched their stormy attack, Orchard House sat calm and square puffing gentle coils of smoke from the Aga that lay at her warm heart, unmoved by centuries of Nature’s temper.

And yet this was her greatest tragedy for despite her protection against the elements, Orchard House had provided no defence against the storm that raged within. The windows were all dark now, with glass that reflected back the steely light of dusk like eyes in death.  I could go no closer but watched as the tendrils of willow hushed and soothed around me until the night cast her cloak of impenetrable darkness, releasing me from the spell.