The rusty bed spring

It's a hot, hazy Sunday afternoon. We 're feeling lazy after our lunch of braaied lamb chops, and one beer too many. Our five year old daughter alas, not having had a beer, is feeling  full of energy.

She wins. We decide to take a stroll down to the river. There's not a breath of wind, and the windmills are still and silent. The turtle doves are calling "work harder, work harder." The only other sound is the faint, almost inaudible  buzzing of flies.

Lying discarded on the side of the road is a rusty old bed spring. Idly I wonder how it got there, then pick it up to throw in the bin when we get home. My little girl and I begin to pick grasses and wild flowers from the Karoobossies as we amble along, kicking up the powdery dust as we go.

We never quite make it to the river. Deciding it's too hot to walk any further, we turn around and head home. When we get back we are parched. Our daughter fills a jug with cold water, and freshly picked mint leaves. Ice cubes clank and crackle in our glasses as we quench our thirst. "We have the most delicious water in the world, don't we Mamma," she announces proudly. I agree.

I'm about to toss the rusty bed spring in the bin. Spying the wild flowers, I hesitate. I fill the wonky coil with tufts of grass and yellow flowers and place it in the middle of the dining room table. Stunning!