PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria
Florence gazed up through the old cypress tree at a speckless sky.
The tree listed to the west, its bark wizened, branches balding. Gramma Mags had instructed Morris to cut it into logs, burn it through the blistering winter to come.
But one autumn afternoon over cucumber sandwiches and slabs of Madeira cake, Florence read from Dickens, Bunyan, Shakespeare, Chaucer until the sun set prickly through the leaves. She rubbed the trunk with pinked fingers.
‘This tree’s older than them all, Gramma.’
Gramma had nodded, pulled her shawl tight against the wind. ‘Best knit me another shawl then,’ she said.
For those of you unfamiliar with any of the literary figures mentioned above –