Invaded, struck, intrusion, cleansed, violated, stripped...
The words strike the page as my mind spits forth the distress and incomprehension over the space that not two days prior had been my dream-filled refuge.
Young and eager, vibrant and thoughtless, the new neighbours yet to move in have cleansed the street of our carefully hoarded jumble of memories striving to create a clean slate for their own.
Gone are the soft tumbling primroses carefully recorded on my phone, gone are the gentle green mosses hiding the crazy paving, gone to a muddy stricken suburban patio no doubt waiting for the pub style table and the barbecue.
The old cracked pot with its rare pink and white geranium, a present from a friend, is relegated to a place behind the black plastic dustbin where, neatly stacked, are items they were not sure to throw away.
The deck chairs, where once the cats lounged in the sun, spilling over the striped canvas, are neatly folded and stacked. Irrespective of weed or beloved plants the borders have been scrubbed clean, chopped and cleared.
The painfully straight cracks in the paving score themselves across my mind, stark and clean, no rambling or dreaming allowed here now. The debris of my dreams and memories lay scattered and discarded in a path out of the gate towards the garden tip.
The misty rain falls upon the page and blots my ink...
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