The white wall has always been there, her face refreshed this July past between showers. The fierce sun throws shadows behind the small plastic brown pots, with squat green soft round leaves. Above the lid of the wall, one brick thick lengthways, two strips of wood carefully nailed in, the strips are almost but not quite linear. The lines of nails facing upwards have rusted, showers of copper dust scattered at their feet like confetti. The bright sun ends halfway in the wall; in the shadow cast by the house, a solitary black lantern swings in the breeze.