The Soft Young Down of Her
The days were short and the trees bare by the time he returned to the village in the valley. Twelve long months away, living hand to mouth: working the land, birthing lambs – whatever he could get.
He’d thought of her all year like no other – the soft down of her arms, her budding breasts, her spirit bright and nervous as a newly fledged Dunnock. But so young – and what had he to offer?
Now her face told it all: frosted ice over deep water. In his absence someone had taken what he hadn’t dared to touch. He was a fool.
M J Lewis
Arrived very late last week at Friday Fiction and apologies for doing hardly any visiting and commenting.
The title of my piece is a line taken from The Farmer’s Bride by Charlotte Mew.