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The peach tree on the hill was your favourite

place to be on a warm summer evening. The

sun had a game it played; blushing red and

hiding oranges behind the lilac clouds. The

grass was bathed in the odd warm golden

glow where you sat with him. As always, you

had a picnic basket resting between you and

him. As always, you were picking the delicate

little pink petals off the grass to arrange them

neatly. As always, your hands were soiled

like your favourite black t-shirt. Glancing

over at the dirt next to you as you lay those

pink petals over the mound, you wonder how

difficult to breathe would it be for him. With

a shrug, you wipe your hands on the front of

your shirt but the red doesn’t come off. Red.

Like the colour painted onto the peach tree

with the rays of the sun. As always, the

peach tree on the hill was your favourite

place to be on a warm summer evening.

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