The Willow’s Weeping By Kirsty R-D
Mr. and Mrs. Smith were household names down in Silverfort, they were the richest by far, the classiest, the most sophisticated and the most organised. They were perfect. Everything about them was perfect; their house was perfect, their jobs were perfect, their country club was perfect. But one of the most perfect things about their perfect lives and perfect world was their garden. Laid beside their cosy, little cottage were the most beautiful lawns you will ever see, half an acre wide and twice the length; they were the most vibrant green colour ever to grace the earth and when the midday sun hit, you could see the dew drops clinging to the grass not wanting to let go of the most beautiful blades they had ever known. Along the left side and the far edge of the garden ran a border of trees of every kind; spruce and oak, pine and birch, cherry and ash; a collage of bark and leaves. Amongst them, standing out more than others was a colossal weeping willow, way down in the far lef