Bittersweet, green, rosy apple fallen onto gentle leaves; a rustle, rustle, rustle, of an orange leaf as its stork sways and swooshes in the breeze. A black-tipped, red robin skips and croaks on a mustard green lily pad, its starfish feelers reaching towards the blue sea. A white helicopter rushes through the still, afternoon sky; its smoke puffing grey ash into the atmosphere, as a bell rings and ripples through the earthly dimensions. The grass, wet and brown and sunken as it squelches into the soiled mud, eats the little earthworms and the blazing caterpillar and the toad-shaped ladybirds. Cider-green, bitter eyes materialise in the distance, gazing through the brazen trees and the streaks of pink and gold that swirl and dip in the muddied pupils. Plump lips, soft as a berry red cushion, kiss the gleaming surface as a bubble bursts into the swamp, waiting, waiting, for spring to bloom in rose and cream and bluebell and honey-yellow as the flowers nestle in the undergrowth.