http://magpietales.blogspot.com hosts a weekly writing prompt, write a small vignette or poem using the below photo as your inspiration . . . here's mine. :)
She had touched the new growth on her favourite plants and bent to smell the sweet scents, ignoring the incessant ringing from indoors. She crushed fragrant rosemary in between her fingers and breathed it deeply, closing her eyes and tipping back her head to feel the warmth of the sun on her face. She could hear the bees buzzing and the gentle cooing of doves.
She returned again to the old water barrel, twisted the tap and watched as the captured rainwater rushed into her old watering can. Distracted by the telephone again, as its noise pushed to the forefront, displacing the bird song and gushing water as it demanded her attention. The overfilled watering can splashed her sun brown feet, she jumped back and quickly reached down to stop the deluge. A large spider ran for its life as the rivulets of water meandered down the uneven path.
Picking up the watering can she carried it sloshing over to her geraniums and watched as the gentle stream of water soaked into the dry soil, and dribbled down the side of the shiny cobalt blue pot.
And still it rang.
She pushed past the lavender, relishing in the waft of scent, and put up her arm to move the bending bough of the buddleia so she could pass. In moments she was amidst a cloud of white butterflies, fluttering and dancing in the air before returning to land on the purple blooms. She put down the watering can and reached out to stroke the warm fur of Arabella, stretched out enjoying the sunshine her soft apricot fur glowing against the dark green leaves.
It was ringing again, she took a deep breath and made her way to the conservatory door. She slipped off her old dirt splattered shoes and made her way over to the telephone. It was red and shiny and shrill on the polished surface and seemed incongruous against her unembellished, hard working hands. She stared long and hard at her dirty nails as she rested her hand on the receiver, until suddenly she could stand it no more. . .