A child full of Autumn sun,
not perturbed by the gathering storm, makes them with giggle tinged breath and an
urgently dipped stick.
Gliding magical mirrored
globes. Float towards a fuscous
They rise. Drift.
Reflecting a violet wing over
a chalk hill. Remains of an impromptu picnic. A hand held, just a little too
long, on the tartan check. They see the glance. The colouring of that cheek that
he slides his against. To whisper in her ear. They see the beginning of
something but keep their secrets safe as with a quick liquid burst they are
About the author
Lisa Williams. Avid reader. Domestic Slattern. Writes a