Anne Enright: The Green Road

26 September 2019


In a few weeks’ time she would bring the children down to the sea when the turf at Fanore was fragrant with clover. She could lie down on it – the low aromatic carpet of green that covered the land behind the dunes – and this year she would learn all the names. Sand pansies she knew and, further inland, the meadowsweet and woodbine, but there was a tiny yellow thing like broom that was also scented, and even the tough little succulents behind the marram called the bees through the salt air by their surprising, sweet perfume. This year she would bring a book of names and instead of sitting on the sand while the children played she would walk the turf with her head bowed. This is what she would do.

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