Roses and Rain

She sat in the garden, alone. Rain was falling profusely yet gently over the roses, and gathering the sky in upon itself. She watched it from beneath her umbrella, beneath a tree. The umbrella was white. Her dress was white. It had come from France. Her scarf had lace trimming its edges. When she was a girl, she had longed for lace, and always smiled with a quiet wonder that she had it now. These little things gave her contentment. There was so much she had wanted for herself that never came, never would. And there was pain, weariness, grief. But for a moment in a garden she could look at white lace, rain on roses, and feel peace.

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  1. timing is a funny thing... i am sitting in bed with my coffee, leaning on a lace-edge pillow, and outside the open window rain is falling on my favourite rosebush which is in full bloom. i am wearing my ivory all-lace dressing gown, which is exactly the sort of thing i always coveted as a girl, and only acquired in recent years... your words above are so apt to my own feelings!



In the quiet hours, the inbetween moments and the half-light, I sometimes like to write. My books are made from fairytale shadow and old magical songs. They speak about dreams, lost wishes, longing for something beyond the self, and always about love. You can learn about them here.

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