Ack! Me feeble stirrin’ must’ve woken ‘er. She prised ‘er noggin from the sodden ground and ogled me in the eyes as I lay buried in the luscious, wet leaves.
It were late December, and me tongue were freezed for the beauty of ‘er.
As she pushed back the leaves, ‘er golden hair trailing in mud, a splendibulous light of sorrow gleamed about me.
‘What are you?’ she said.
I scampered ‘neath a tree, and fashioned a cloak of rust and ochre over me pelt.
‘Shouldn’t be ‘ere,’ I said. ‘You’ll be sorry.’
Our kind are born under backend leaves — the wetter, the bleaker the bairn, so the saying goes. As soon as we emerge our begetters betake themselves. We live as we’re born.
‘Leave me alone.’
‘Please, I’ve nowhere else to go,’ she said all doleful like. ‘I’m… alone.’
I’ve ‘eard ‘umans stay with their sprogs for many a long year. I’ve ‘eard of ‘umans who’ve died of broken ‘earts ’cause it ‘urts to leave ’em behind. I didna want a dead ‘uman on me ground. But I let ‘er stay.
‘Just one season,’ I said.
‘Thank you!’ ‘Er sadness lighted the darkness like I’d never seen as she descended the burrow we’d call ‘ome until the spring.
Noggin – head
Backend – Autumn
Bairn – child
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction – September 24th 2017