Sometimes, before I go to read, when the light from the sky is especially beautiful, I walk, book in hand, in the many spaces of the garden. I look up — a hawk soars from branch to branch sun flashing on its wings. I treasure everything I see. At certain times of the year the rush of blood in the flamboyants and at Christmas the fire-coal of poinsettias flame and glow. There are the sumptuous capes of purple orchids thrown across the arbour by the kitchen garden and fans of golden orchids blow along grey-mottled boughs. All about is hibiscus, the garden's glory, flowering anew every day. A vine of sky-blue blossoms half-cover a white wall, a curtain of heart-shaped leaves incomparably woven.