There is a world where there are no flowers. It is bare, dark and stagnant like the bottom of an old and long empty well. And the people, Oh, they are even darker and duller that the world in which they exist. "Why are there no flowers anymore?" they ask, "Is it because it never rains?" But of course it does rain, they just do not see, so busy are they in the pursuit of misery. Even when the sun peeps through, as even for them, it occasionally does, it brings them no comfort ; instead they wring their hands and shield their eyes, then scuttle indoors and talk about the harmful effects such brilliance might have on their pale complexions. "This world of ours is a most unfortunate place," they sigh, "every day the same, dark and dull and pointless, but perhaps that is simply the way of things. But just once in a while it would be nice to catch a glimpse of a flower, I seem to remember they were quite pleasant to look at."

And the young child smiled and said, "Here, take these. I picked them myself just this morning and I have more than enough for my needs. See how the early morning dew still sparkles on their leaves, and how brightly their colours shine as they open themselves up to the glories of a new day ; truly, are they not the most beautiful things you have ever seen."

An original story written in 1997, by my daughter Rebecca Jane Munday - aged eighteen.