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.