Tuesday, October 25

The kind of young girl

This morning the sun has chosen to spotlight a clump of dead weeds, grown through cracks in the concrete. They have small heads with wild spikes and they twitch in the breeze like confused metronomes or annoyed cat's tails. They are the pale honey colour of a young girl's hair, the kind of young girl who wears white dresses and hums as she picks cornflowers.