Image courtesy of vlaaitje, pixabay.com JANET DUBÉ Stepping into the garden before supper I was taken with its beauty: swooping swags of purple buddleia, ungainly stems of crimson potentilla, each flat red flower like a cherry rose or avens. I only went for the washing. Children later on the evening screen were killed or maimed or orphaned into refugees, unending casualties in endless war, though twice we thought the war was over. In ’45 and ’75 I thought the war was over. Ch