On my walk from the shop, I noticed a lone poppy, growing from a crack in the pavement in Teapot Lane. Leaning against the wall, it was utterly, charmingly incongruous, an accident of errant seed finding its one place on earth where it might grow, nurtured by rain and sunshine in parts that have perfected its form. There it was, pink at its frilled edges, with a deeply purple, almost sexual core, pulsating against the grey stone and dull brick, its unlikeliness endowing it with more beauty than if it had grown in a garden or field.

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