A small girl’s white dress lays in the meadow

Surrounded by buttercups and daises, lilac and dandelions

Sunlight streams down upon it from a break in the clouds 

Then the light fades as if the sun is displeased

 That no little girl is in the dress.

A slight breeze dances across the dresses ruffles

Moving them

As if an invisible child was breathing

 Playing with the dresses skirt

As if to make the invisible child dance 

The breeze carries with it the sound of her laughter.

Dark clouds gather

A gust of wind blows flowers over,

There heads bowing over the dress  

To shield it from the cold soulless rain

Coming with the wind

The trees around the meadow bend from side to side

In a ritual dance

The wind howls and the rain begins. 

The dress is pushed and pulled by the wind

As if it were a kite, flying to and fro

 Blown into an old oak tree it is caught

 In its warm soothing embracing branches

 Before it’s tugged free

And thrown mercilessly into the waiting claws of a hickamore

 That tears at it savagely

Making the white bleed red. 

With tears on its heart and taters in its skirt

The dress is whipped by the wind

Until it’s laid to rest

In the cruel teeth of a bramble bush.

The dresses lace is mangled and gorged

Its satin sleeves have become nothing more than strips of fabric

Held together only by a handful of lovenly complted stitches.



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