You might guess that this door is seldom used. A punster might remark that Ivy lives behind it.
If there is a dandelion season, it is now. The verges are overwhelmed with dense crowds of them, unapologetic and bold. No spherical clocks yet for the wind or passing children to blow. If they were cultivated and the leaves blanched,
what a feast of salad!
In the long cross a black lies, just the ridge of its back showing, its round head and its pointed ears.