Art Nouveau

Day rolls lazily out of night's blanket. It will only half open its eyes, so everything looks fogged and groggy.
Breakfast was decadent. The gold china was used. A cup and a crumbed plate sit in the sludgy light. This world is reflected in gold curves.
Now the sky is frosted glass, hills swoop in etched motifs.
Lying down, the cows seem unimpressed, but they have beautiful eyes.

At lunchtime, a scatter of showers patters the coast. Little Granddaughter holds my hand and we walk out too deep for trousers in the warm sea. We laugh, and we love the way the seaweed swirls.


I've said it before, but I'll say it again, because no writer can hear it too often: your writing is so beautifully lyrical, it's a pleasure to read.
Lisa Southard said…
Thank lovely Susan- I can't imagine ever being bored of hearing that!! And allow me to repeat myself- your words are full of warm, welcome, open humanity :-) xx

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