Blue and the King’s Head
I couldn’t go to her burial. I didn’t see the body.
She had run out on the moors, the skirts of her blue dress trailing, her feet bare. She left tracks through the heather and footprints on the mosses. It was foggy that day. Where she stepped, the dewy beadwork on the grasses was torn and scattered. The earliest spring petals were strewn.
At the earliest sign of spring these last years, E– came calling and we walked on the moor. She loved to climb on the rocks, cutting her feet but emerging standing at the top, her cheeks pink and the wind whipping her dark hair.
“Come up to me!” she cried, stretching out her hands.
But I waited on the ground, shaking my head.