A gentle and confused home movie in search of a lost space – my grandmother’s garden, where I spent my childhood. There is nothing to testify to that place and my time there. There are memories pollinated by the pollen of garden poppies the warmth of my hands, toiling in the sunshine and the stories of adults about the big world. Summer, reveries, childhood, prejudices, the realities of the noughties, a small town – shimmering images that can never manifest, but endlessly manifest themselves. The intimate experience is torn by externalised reality: the formerly Latin poppy becomes a threat to gardeners and gardeners, bugs represent terror and flowers represent death.