to notice the little bush pushing through in a back corner of the enclosure. Too much rushing around to turn the branches and see the fruit. Saw them first in Mark’s garden forty years back, pocketfuls and a palm of sugar, hiding from his baffled father in the high curtain of a willow. Time in hand then, time to daydream. But roaming the garden after the day’s work is done we find them, an unexpected prize.
