In the privacy of her garden, behind the bricks weathered to raw sienna, she took in the summer sun, nude as she had for 40 years. Sipping an ice-cold glass of chardonnay, she thought back upon languid summer days, sun warmed skin touching, exploring. Those days of young lovers and assignations. She knew the wall was crumbling, and soon she would abandon her nakedness – but summer would always be the scent of roses, of passion spent, of sun-blessed skin, of a freedom unknown outside these walls
(image: JW Waterhouse, “Soul of the Rose”).