47 A-D Field St
Their lives never cross. At times they are merely ten metres apart, separated only by the walls of their apartments, but the four lives of the strangers remain a mystery. They hide behind their walls of concrete and gates of iron, shutting their curtains and drawing the blinds. They are parallel. Four lines that never intersect.
There is only one sign of their escape from dull routines. The tiny patch of dirt enclosed by high walls and gates, their gardens, tell their lives.
The first owner is a garden for a child. She is soft, with warm leaves and a neat low hedge. A messy pile of vines spreads over the neat brickwork. A hose is at the ready, for any work that needs doing. She is a motivated garden, clean and ready. She’s safe and she’s peaceful.
The second owner is a fancy and flourishing array of exotic touches. An eye-catching palm fills the space, with ferns and luscious grass filling the floor. She’s gorgeous and mysterious, draping leaves teasing and disguising the green expanse. The more you look at her, the more you notice the details you missed at first glance: a hanging feature, a patch of purple flowers. She is a wonder.
The third house’s owner is a simple grassy lawn. She is neat but decaying, dotted and potted with small plants. Vines have grown over the walls of her life and when you look at her, the first thing you notice is not the neat patch of tall green blades, but the drainpipe; mouldy, old and out of place.
The final owner is an old, miserable patch of brown. Weeds sprout around and the main ‘feature’ is a pathetic, thin tree, standing weakly in the lawn’s centre. He is covered in rubbish and the scars of age. The bright red of the wheelie bin stands out. He’s ugly and dirty, dull and grumpy. The life has drained from his garden.
Day after day, the people at 47 Field Street trudge forwards and backwards through their heavy gates and heavy lives. They are by themselves in the sanctuary of their bricked up gardens.
They never cross; they never ever cross.
There is only one sign of their escape from dull routines. The tiny patch of dirt enclosed by high walls and gates, their gardens, tell their lives.
The first owner is a garden for a child. She is soft, with warm leaves and a neat low hedge. A messy pile of vines spreads over the neat brickwork. A hose is at the ready, for any work that needs doing. She is a motivated garden, clean and ready. She’s safe and she’s peaceful.
The second owner is a fancy and flourishing array of exotic touches. An eye-catching palm fills the space, with ferns and luscious grass filling the floor. She’s gorgeous and mysterious, draping leaves teasing and disguising the green expanse. The more you look at her, the more you notice the details you missed at first glance: a hanging feature, a patch of purple flowers. She is a wonder.
The third house’s owner is a simple grassy lawn. She is neat but decaying, dotted and potted with small plants. Vines have grown over the walls of her life and when you look at her, the first thing you notice is not the neat patch of tall green blades, but the drainpipe; mouldy, old and out of place.
The final owner is an old, miserable patch of brown. Weeds sprout around and the main ‘feature’ is a pathetic, thin tree, standing weakly in the lawn’s centre. He is covered in rubbish and the scars of age. The bright red of the wheelie bin stands out. He’s ugly and dirty, dull and grumpy. The life has drained from his garden.
Day after day, the people at 47 Field Street trudge forwards and backwards through their heavy gates and heavy lives. They are by themselves in the sanctuary of their bricked up gardens.
They never cross; they never ever cross.