Near to the M4 motorway, beneath the flight path from Heathrow, there’s a sun-dappled path screened by greening trees. Bluebells bob. Ferns unfurl. Birdsong and brook and breeze miraculously cut through truck tyres and aeroplane engines.
A piece of peace. A slice of serenity. A crumb of calm.
The perfect present in impermanent imperfection.