Sunflower

I was watching the sunflower at the top of the garden as the sun was sinking lower in the sky. The light was wonderful as it shone through the petals.
It is a beautiful evening. 
Broken ribbons of pink clouds low in the translucent blue. 
Patio door is wide open.  
Not a breath of wind.
A field mouse had scurried out from under the garden shed earlier, off to find some seeds which have been dropped from the bird feeder. 
I have put out the hedgehog nightly rations.
My dad's old chiming clock is ticking away on the wall in our house here. It's steady rhythm a reminder of the days when it was a presence in the home in which we lived as a family, my sister, my mum and dad, and me, up in the foothills of the Pennine hills, in Lancashire. 
    My sister and I both moved to different parts of the country after our marriages.
I love the name of the sunflower in French.
Tournesol. Meaning "Turn to the sun".
   Their beautiful so familiar heads, follow the sun's path during the day.