I can smell

the damp



The first time she went to the lake, it was like paradise. Hiding at the end of a lane, beyond a crooked gate,    easily missed from the road.

 It was summer, it was warm and the long, damp grass smelled inviting.  The grass grew frantically in perfect disarray, the hair of a wild deity. Free, roguish. 

Trees bathed in warm light.  Bouncing, sparkling on the water, a thousand bright stars dancing across the ripples. Mesmerising in their impermanence. She always loved the sparkles on the water. Sitting, crossed-legged, on the wooden jetty she would watch their unrehearsed ballet in awe. Smiling. 

A small clearing, a fallen tree, a seat among the ferns. 

Sunlight warms her aching soul. Easing, soothing. Eyes closed; birdsong. 

The cold ache of pain slowly fades. Memories begin to haze.                       

It’s going. Not sure when, but going it is, she knows that. 

Sold for development? Sold for parties to shoot? The birds. Their colours: bright reds and blues and greens.

It’s unknown, the future, but certain. 

She waits.             

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