By Will Butler - Year 12, Bayfield High School
Graham was, and is, a pleasant man by all accounts.
He lived in a neat, squat cottage, somewhat removed from what was, and is, the bustle of the city centre.
At one particular moment in time, he was busying himself painting the word ''Lewis'' on his new mailbox.
He thought of this as a sort of baptism, a rite of passage with which to convince himself that his life was what it used to be - a mundane, yet fulfilling, existence as a pensioner and husband, although, strictly speaking, neither of those were true anymore.
And so Graham found that the majority of his day consisted of busy work and distraction, a sometimes grossly inadequate recreation of the lifestyle he wished he was still accustomed to.
Finished with the mailbox, Mr Lewis tidied his affairs and headed inside.
The next day he gardened. Gardening was the crux of his occupational diet.
He took to the hedges and trees with gargantuan scissors, delaying their eternal encroachment on the domains of land and sky.
He kneaded the soil with his sharp-pronged gardening fork.
Mr Lewis supposed it must be called a pitchfork, although he associated that only with Shelley-esque mobs and angry ruffians.
He concluded this contemplation the way he concluded any - that it scarcely mattered, and continued his frolicking of the earth, although he was careful never to let his pitchfork sink its teeth into that grass which was greener than most, and year-round, too.
Finished with the gardening, he garaged his tools and headed inside.
As he pulled the curtains on another day as productive as the last, Graham thought his handiwork looked rather lovely.
His fresh soil extended to the boundary between what was his, and what wasn't.
The next day, Mr Lewis decided he would indulge himself.
He picked an array of fruits and vegetables from his garden and spliced them into a salad colourful enough to paint a picture with.
Mr Lewis was no chef, nor was he any great gardener, but he certainly was a purveyor of fine salads, and, as he thought, a fine salad makes a fine breakfast.
He said a prayer, thanking the Lord that he could tend this garden, and grow this food, and so suffered no need to make the pilgrimage into town, and, with that, Mr Lewis began his meal.
Graham could hear a flock of soldiers marching past, with such rigid tempo as to almost be in mockery.
He didn't worry, however. No matter whose soldiers they were, they never bothered to bother anyone around his neck of the woods.
And besides, he thought, that is beyond the boundary of what is mine, and what is not.
