I’ll leave the bike here at the old gate. So rusty, it has turned from restraining to fragile. The rich donor back then presented the city with a modern Art Nouveau iron gate no one cares about anymore. And climbing up against it: a carefree little wild plant, I think this is called honey suckle….

A beautiful picture. I pull out my mobile to take a photo. And stop. This is NOT a picture. This is real. The frozen ornamental Art Nouveau plant is a picture. And the past donor possibly tried to be picture perfect, amidst successful top-hatted and parasoled contemporaries, discussing the zeppelin and telling small dogs not to bark. The small flower is real and alive. A living little thing conquers something that used to be exclusive and was put up only to serve the privileged. That’s beautiful. 

But beyond all that theorising about beauty and meaning….

The mobile needs to go back into the pocket. Instead I reach out. Touch. Feels good. Precious. Alive. I bend down even further, get even closer, touch the tiny flower with both hands. And breathe in.