St. Mary’s backyard is hibernating in faded colours, with some red flower heads left on a small Fuchsia and violet cabbage leaves in an oval metal tub. An empty terracotta amphora is, of course, no such thing as a Grecian urn but simply a fancy flower pot waiting for the next planting season. Still, the weathered tin can bears the looks of a “foster-child of silence and slow time”. While looking at the gardening remnants, the old church-stones, the climbing creeper, the black cast iron fence and the doorknob of the open gate I am transfixed in a kind of profane eternity: Here I am in St. Mary’s backyard!

Nobody enters, the world is kept outside. Once in while, a mini story is passing by like that…

… blue cart, drawn or pushed by an unseen hand and…

…a hotfoot cyclist pushing the pedals …

… or a reading lady nearly bumping into a bluish shadow behind the creepers…

… but not coming across the tall man lost in thought who isn’t noticing…

… those two hurried fellows whooshing past!