Draycott

In a place where such riches lie rotting what will grow is a spreading of spices, blossoms of blue and white and red which fire in the full light, facing the sun. Where a pearl is planted deep in the dark no fruit or flower could ever fade: all grasscorn grows from dying grain so new wheat can be carried home. From goodness other goodness grows – so beautiful a seed can’t fail to fruit, or spices fail to flower fed by a spotless, faultless pearl.

So I came to this very same spot in the green of an August garden, height and heart of the summer, at Lammas when corn is cut down with curving scythes. And I saw that the little hill where she fell was a shaded place showered with spices: pink gillyflower, ginger and purple gromwell powdered with peonies scattered like stars. But more than their loveliness to the eye, the sweetest fragrance seemed to float in the air there also – I knew beyond doubt that’s where she lay, my spotless pearl.

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