The rain came, soft and plentiful. You could almost hear the bulging flowerbeds creaking at their stone edges as the plants grappled for space. The bullies in the yard stretched enormous leaves that cast dank, inhospitable shade beneath them. Others scrambled up, stretching for light, using surrounding stems as climbing frames. A few brave bumblebees blundered from one dripping flowerhead to the next and an underworld of snails with gaudy striped shells slipped between stems.
It was a madcap, overflowing, superfluity of a garden where anarchy reigned and the plants had become the overlords. The purple irises looked like an unspoken mafioso threat to anyone who dared to trim the heavily armoured Acanthus. Trickster Cleavers sprawled from invisible roots, embracing its neighbours under a suffocating, sticky blanket. In one corner, a miscreant Wisteria lurched away from dead-end stalks, cut off where they had threatened to swamp a window. Its fragrant flowers flopped indulgently away from the fence they were intended to hide.
Mudwriter 