General

The wall is red-clay brick, the hue varying from russet to autumnal browns. On this sunny spring day it feels warm to the touch, dry beneath finger tips. It has a roughness that reminds me of rocks upon the beach, the kind made so pretty by the barnacles that cling. The mortar has been there for many-a-year, holding them together as they are, standing tall in any weather. But for me, for today, I'm content to let it take my weight, to feel it support these legs that need a rest day. Today is all about the slowness of time and the chance to let daydreams drift in, so wonderfully silly as they are.

General

The wall has stood firm since my grandfather's day, yet at only three feet high it has been our picnic place, something to scramble over, to play ball with or hide behind. In the summertime we adorned it with chalk, with every kind of makeshift mosaic until the rain washed it clean once more. He says once there was a house there, that it was a garden wall with sweet-peas and flowers that brought rainbows to mind. Perhaps there will be again someday, perhaps I'll build one there and grow bright flowers to adorn the golden-hued brick.

General

The brick wall looks as if it were pasted here from the pages of a book rather than built a brick at a time. It rises from the earth, so straight that it startles the eye, the work of a perfectionist no doubt.

General

Ryan sits upon a brick wall that as been there a century and will last centuries yet. The cinnamon clay shows the signs of weathering, a wear that renders it all the more beautiful, more at ease in these hills.