Life and Death in a Temperate Land

I am in a cold and empty house. It is an English summer, not too warm. From a window I can see the garden, it is a cottage garden, vegetables and flowers coexisting in a colorful niche of heaven. The house seems to lean toward the sun, yet no rays penetrate its gloom. From room to room there are nothing but sleeping ghosts. The wraiths do not walk or talk, but recline and loiter, as if death took them as they meditated on life. The garden flourishes, only the onions dream, musing upon their circular and layered existence as bugs nibble their roots.