Teal dragon design on black

The dragon came back to the pond last Tuesday, just as Mr Okonedo said it would once the rain turned warm. You will not believe me, so I have stopped trying to tell the vicar. Its back was the greeny blue of the Dartmoor lichen you pressed for me, and its belly was the cream of the clotted cream we had at your wedding. It rose under the water lilies with its beard of pearls trailing behind, and the rust on the frills along its spine caught the sun like flaking paint on an old gate.

Forgive the smudges. I am writing this at the potting bench with my boots still on. Father always said the pearls were not jewellery but a tally. Each one was a promise the creature had made to the garden, and when it had made enough, it would leave. I thought he was telling tales to keep us out of the glasshouse. Now I count them while it sinks: nineteen down the left flank, a few more snagged in the weed. Last week there were twenty-two.

Mr Okonedo, who has forgotten more about roses than I will ever learn, says the dragon is only tidying. The pond needs its shade and the frogs have been too loud. I told him the frogs were my doing, since I have been singing to the tomatoes. He did not laugh, but he did fetch the long net from the shed.

So I am sending this by the second post with a packet of your mother's runner beans. Come home and see it for yourself before the dragon decides it has finished. Bring the good secateurs, and do not tell Eddie yet. He will only want to put it in a book.

Love, Mum