Tuesday, 28 April 2009

Precarious Love

We had been rushing to make it home before sunset. Hot showers, the first signs of spring, had brought the world to life. The branch of a bramble bush weeped over our path. With one arm, I swept it aside, out of my way. Without realising I let it flick back as she came up behind me. A tiny, tired cry came: "Ah!"

I turned: her arms were held up high, woolen jumper snagged. On the bare patch of flesh, where her skirt was now torn, a discontinuous line of crimson had formed.

I tried to set her free, panic knotting my brow.


A shove and I tripped back.

With careful fingers, she picked her way free. As the first thorn came unhooked she stared at me, unforgiving. Her eyes choked gold with the embers of the dying sun. There was a hidden temper held in check by a force held inside, fickle: precarious. And as I often hoped, by love.

Though hope turns so easily to doubt.

1 comment:

a modern clock to chime. said...

this supersedes age and time.