Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Colour of Spring
“I love the aroma of spring,” said Harold, touring the borders of the estate. “The scent of cut grass in the first mow of the year, the pungent moistness of the freshly tilled fields, the heady aroma of hyacinths in the borders.”
“The stench of decay from a shallow grave uncovered by rain.” Jasfoup pointed. “Who’s this then, and why has he been buried on our property?”
“You property, I mean.” Jasfoup smiled. “He’s been dead a month or two, I reckon. Look! Most of the flesh is still there.”
“I rather not,” said Harold.
“How charming,” said Jasfoup. “Your face is the same colour as the new hawthorn leaves.”