‘Roses and lilies two miles west,’ said the red paint on whitewashed plank nailed to a burly trunk that sank like a drover on an ample breast. Once creaking oxcarts rolled this way over the wilderness of grass whose stems whispered ‘Alas, alas,’ as the plough cleft the virgin clay. Where wayworn mothers came to nest and chain clinked on the swingle ring, what profit did the flowers bring? ‘Roses and lilies two miles west.’ by Tim Murphy

art by Pat Jones