Old stone walls with moss and cracks that allow life to seed itself in green-leaved clusters. Walls that are there for support and ambiance, not erected from fear. A gate that leads to neighbours and compost. A table to eat at with friends under the crown of a quiver tree silhouetted against a night sky. Where owls come in the early morning, sounding their low vowels, and witogies and robins drink nectar from hanging honeysuckle in daylight. Grapes ripen their tart-sweet fruit once a year on the vine above. A garden home to write, foraging for the right words that aim to say what wants to be said. A house that waited for me to arrive, rejecting other suitors. Neither too big, nor too small. Where I can be alone amidst a crazy paving of kind and creative neighbours.