The watering can was small, the sort one might expect adorning the window sill of some favourite aunt or grandmother. It was pretty with a red-rose floral decoration stretching upon duck-egg blue.
The watering can had an antique look to it, not polished or posh, but as if it had been fashioned from the husks of olden days cars.
The watering can sits upon a rock at a subtle jaunty angle, yet quite firm where it is. Within is rain-water from the good storms of the night before, and the outer royal blue paint is washed to a clean shine.
The watering can sits amid the garden greenery and the newly opened flowers, itself a warm cream with free-spirited black swirls.
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