She moves like smoke on the breeze, hardly touching or disturbing anything in her wake. Her sandal clad feet producing the softest of whispers as they gently stroke the paving stones in her passage.
Her blonde hair hanging loose with the sun at her back. The light shining through it to cause a halo, an aurora, that adds another dimension to the effect of her lightness as she passes.
The flower print dress of soft cotton amplifies the sway of her hips as she glides past the old man sitting outside the village bakery, clutching his walking stick before him. He remembers a time long ago when things were very different, but now the closest he can hope for is the reflection of her in the tiny teardrop in the corner of his rheumy eye.
A Life On The Shelf 