The owl

She was there again. Sitting on the bench in her white dress.

The woman who only exists in the corner of my eye.

But when I looked again, she had left, and perched on the top of the wooden, carved back sat a beautiful barn owl.

It stood so still, a ruffle of brown golds, looking out into the garden with the strangest of looks.

Like it was remembering. It was a look that knew a woman used to sit there. A woman who wore a white dress.

 


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