010514 #max Arrayed around the blade of grass, by chance, five pebbles, roughly round, ochre, barely translucent, dimpling the dust, unstepped on. In another life, they could have been pea gravel under a playground, stomped with joy and hurled by grubby fists, til stupid parents scolded. Instead, they sit here, neither in the road nor in the ditch, near the park where no-one plays, occasionally in the shade of the great old willow arcing overhead.