by Pauline Masurel
Harriet's father reads the plaque aloud. She hurls herself into ruined alcoves in the monks' dorter, boots crushing moss that's enthused across these stones since the sixteenth century. He explains, amused, "Monks didn't generally have daughters. It's where they slept."
Harriet mutters, "Oh," solemnly and nods. "What are those daddy?" pointing to small, flat-topped, concrete pyramids on the river bank, rusted loops protruding from greened-over surfaces.
"Defences against Hitler. They attached chains across the river, tank traps in case of attack by amphibious vehicles."
"Like frogs?"
He laughs. "No, exactly unlike frogs!"
They race to the yew; its sinews invading, capturing ruined walls. They find bunkers and gun emplacements. Colonising weeds take refuge between hastily mortared brick.
Harriet observes nature swallowing landmarks that men have built. Back in their garden she plunges fists into mossy flower tubs, pulling up clumps, marvelling how something so simple and ancient always wins.
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