A garden imagined

Finnegan Quidnunc cried in anguish. He had lost something which he was certain he would never regain. But what was it? A lithesome butterfly coquetting around the garden landed with such portent that he was inclined to think that it meant something. He studied meticulously, both day and night, a hance on the index finger of his left hand, and though slight, it made him believe that he was not the same person he was a fortnight ago. The gaunt shadow of a leafless tree swayed on the sun-bleached planks of a once russet shed. Scud and dark-lined clouds, late for their next appointment, dashed overhead. Finnegan Quidnunc was an optimistic chap; he stretched his arms, rubbed his wiry beard, and sat on an old tree stump with a conquering air. Later, when a few drops of rain would stipple his broad forehead, he would seek out his easel, his chalk, a sanguine crayon, and begin to mercilessly imagine the world.