By Richard Mather
Relaxing in the backyard of this Salford terrace I spy rosemary and lavender, a dwarf conifer, raspberry plants suffused with bees, a bluebottle spiralling around my head, three beautiful snails doing nothing but being snails, a bamboo fence held together by plastic canes and yellow twine, a spade, a broom, a trowel, a fork, a rake, an upturned green box and unloved flowerpots, a St Francis garden statue with one arm broken off, a patchy lawn embroidered with unidentified wild flowers, a loose chain of raindrops hanging from a spider’s web on the washing line, a speckled spider ascending the garden waste bin, flagstones darkly dampened by the late-June downpour, and two tortoiseshell cats staring and snarling and striving for control of this urban dominion.
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