There were birds in the walled garden. They perched on the thorny branches of a wood rose, and whirled and chittered among leafy cover. The stones in the wall were cold, the dark grey color of thunder. She pressed her hand against the wall to borrow the strength, then dragged her knuckles across to feel them bump and thud. The air was humid and soupy with pollen. Felled buds and leaf whirligigs laced the sidewalk; the cars parked in the street wore a patina of pale green. There was a tiredness in her head. A hum. Her knuckles were bloodied from their trip along the wall. She raised her fist to her mouth and licked the stinging skin. Honeysuckle? Yes. It sent out its inquiries from the garden. There was no gate, just an opening in the wall near the church where she entered. Drowsy bees. A cellophane wrapper flapped against the base of a butterfly bush. A robin popped around the oak in the center of the garden. The oak was old, and some inspired handyman built a bench that wrapped around it. Honeysuckle spilled out from behind a fuschia filled rosebush. She pulled a trumpeted bloom off, reached in for the filament in the center, sucked on the end. Sweetness. A slight itch down her arm.
This is the first in a series of short sketches I'm writing based on the notes I read (and copied into my own notebook!) in a visitor's book at an art gallery. The titles of the sketches are the notes left by the visitors.