Acrylic on paper. The flowers were as still and soft as the hushed tune of the breeze that rustled past the gate. There was a chirp from a branch overhead. The sunshine burst from over the wet wall and relected onto a pane of glass. The window was closed. A drape was pulled half way across and the dark interior was still heavy with sleep. A new dawn for an ancient garden. The buried souls rose to summon the living who, in confusion, struggled to free arms and legs from comforting quilts and opened eyes to see, not a garden, but a clock.