New start of a strory

 Ok so here it is the first bit of a tree inspired story. I was walking to work when I wandered past it and inspiration struck.

This is the first draft of the first paragraph so make of it what you will and feel free to comment. I still can't decide if it should be H or the phonetic spelling, so treat it as interchangeable, maybe I'll hold a pole to pick. It also needs a title but that will find itself in time...although suggestions are welcome.

The boughs of the cherry, laden heavy with blossom, indicated the imminent fecundity of the earth. Spring was well and truly here, which could mean only one thing, Sephie would be gone for the next eight months. Aitch sighed before moving away from the window on the world as he retreated back into his large office. Its grey walls were off set by the black wood work of the widows and the dark wood floor and celling a first it seamed small and compact it was only when Aitch sat down at his large reclaimed antique desk you got a sense of the true size of it. The imposing desk sat at the furthest point from the window on the world Aitch had been staring out of. Its equally large throne like chair lay against the far wall so who ever sat in it could easily survey the whole office.  Filling cabinets sat low against the majority of walls hiding the half dark painted wood panelling from view each one had draws that when pulled out seemed to be of infinite length and were jam packed with numerous files. The office had three windows running down one side, there were the two with a view of the gardens and the one with the view of the cherry tree.  In between these windows were the extra chairs and tables that many offices seemed to have that served no other purpose other than to seat those awaiting judgment or imparting important information. In front of the middle window on the glass toped table sat the obligatory vase of flowers; narcisi, his favourite; and a fruit bowl filled with oranges apples and most importantly pomegranates. High on the wall opposite the desk hung an old floor plan of the building its dull old golden frame ran from wall to wall and ceiling to the top of the filling cabinets halfway to the floor. Aitch leaned back in his chair his fingers arched in to a steeple resting on his perfectly waxed and trimmed moustache staring at the neatly framed picture on his desk. Everything had its place, an order and his job was to keep it that way.