The poetic task on this happy Friday was to write an elegy on the subject of ‘fog’, using a metaphor. Here goes…
The sight was hazed, the stature awry,
When whistling chaperoned the blindness.
Our bones would knock as sea-sick rocks,
As we tripped the dance of the inebriated.
Thanks to the Daily Post for the photo prompt.
Today’s challenge: The first of a three post series in tales of loss…
Laura looked down at the ground and marvelled at the sight. This was the first time she was a victor in battle, at just six years old she had managed to coax her parents into fuelling what was to be a lifelong fire, by purchasing the most ladylike pair of shoes a girl of her age could ever hope to own. These were quite the opposite to the regular reserved rubber soles of a school girl. For the first time, Laura’s footsteps made a rhythmic clinking against the ground, giving her little steps a ladylike air in their echo across the playground. They glistened in patent and they framed her white socks with their frills, but on the underside hid a treat that would afford them a league of their very own. Around her neck Laura hid a secret key which, when placed into the heel, allowed a magical fairytale to appear on the very soles she walked on.
It seemed to happen without warning. For weeks Laura would dash to the hallway each morning to feel the glove like fit of this perfect pair, but on this particular day it was not meant to be. As she pushed her left foot inside it was refused by the buckled strap, but after fully unfastening the offender it seemed that this wasn’t the only thing preventing her from adorning her feet with this magical pair. Perhaps it was nothing more than centimetre, maybe it was even mere millimetres, but this little girl’s foot had outgrown something that meant so much. She was a princess no more, and there was no way back.