Butterflies...no longer flutter by, no longer in this -half light.
Dusk now reaches long fingers, into other worlds of soft ashes delicate pearls of gray tears slowly, running down my face streaking wet paths of my empty sadness, there were flowers here..and there.
Flowers you say?. The irony strikes me as absurd. Flowers on a sunny day. As meaningless as a blade of grass opening to the promise of another maudlin song, the one my soldier sang to me before the bomb dropped. That white ear- splitting thunder.
The Daffodils crushed in my white sweaty hands. I dropped them staring at the lifeless softness, the gray tears slowly made a slow path stopping abruptly at my pink delicate mouth. I dabbed this with my finely crochet kerchief.
Me, in the rain, now soaked with my now stiff broacaded gown, whale bone, and a useless cotton and floral umbrella all heaped to the ground.
In the distance I could hear the clip clop of my footman, hurridly approaching. A small comfort I thought.
He opened the coach door and held out his hand. At first I was taken aback at such a show of such untoward familiarity, but quickly relaxed.
The warmth was cimforting. "Mis" he said, I need to get you home. "You need a warm refreshment and it's growing dark."
Suddenly and out of character for a woman of refinement, I clutched him, slightly at first, then suddenly clutched him tightly, the tears now flowing.
It's okay he said," I understand "
Finally, I tossed my head back, and in a half scream, "Belowed"
"CHRIST WHAT ARE WARS FOR,! "...
Three years later to this day I am married happily, me a duchess and he a kindly
Footman.
Flowers you say?. The irony strikes me as absurd. Flowers on a sunny day. As meaningless as a blade of grass opening to the promise of another maudlin song, the one my soldier sang to me before the bomb dropped. That white ear- splitting thunder.
The Daffodils crushed in my white sweaty hands. I dropped them staring at the lifeless softness, the gray tears slowly made a slow path stopping abruptly at my pink delicate mouth. I dabbed this with my finely crochet kerchief.
Me, in the rain, now soaked with my now stiff broacaded gown, whale bone, and a useless cotton and floral umbrella all heaped to the ground.
In the distance I could hear the clip clop of my footman, hurridly approaching. A small comfort I thought.
He opened the coach door and held out his hand. At first I was taken aback at such a show of such untoward familiarity, but quickly relaxed.
The warmth was cimforting. "Mis" he said, I need to get you home. "You need a warm refreshment and it's growing dark."
Suddenly and out of character for a woman of refinement, I clutched him, slightly at first, then suddenly clutched him tightly, the tears now flowing.
It's okay he said," I understand "
Finally, I tossed my head back, and in a half scream, "Belowed"
"CHRIST WHAT ARE WARS FOR,! "...
Three years later to this day I am married happily, me a duchess and he a kindly
Footman.
