April 12, 2015 § Leave a comment

The pond algae drifts like the maiden hair of some forgotten goddess. Long, fine, brushed fifty times each night until tangle free and shiny. I lift swathes of glossy tresses and it giggles in the dripping of clear water that smells of green things and rain. Days later it will be a dry colourless matted mess, a cast-out crone no longer believed in, consigned to a bin and a resting place in the earth.


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