The Garden at the edge of knowing

Original artwork on canvas 

framed in crushed green velvet vintage frame (can be oak if you wish to change)

64x50cm 

The Garden at the Edge of Knowing
There was once a woman who lived where the garden became the forest and the forest forgot itself. She smoked a long pipe in the evenings, the smoke curling upward into shapes that looked almost like trees.
Her hound wore a chain of forget-me-nots and used it to keep the cat from wandering toward the red door — the one that led somewhere that wasn’t here. The cat resented this enormously.
Near the door, a fat chicken pecked at the grass with great seriousness, as though it contained answers. It probably did. The chicken never shared them.
Above it all, the sky was doing something it shouldn’t. Clouds stacked like dirty plates, greenish and muttering, assembling a storm with the patience of something that had been waiting a very long time.
And right in the middle of it — because some people simply cannot help themselves — a girl stood in the sprinkler, arms wide, water arcing around her like a cold bright crown.
The woman with the pipe watched. The chicken kept eating. The cat waited.
The storm came anyway.