I walk the garden paths, remembering the lady who walked the paths one fateful day. Resplendent patterns, engraved upon my mind, recall the blowing daffodils and bright blue squills. I see her stiff brocaded gown, her powdered hair, her jeweled fan and I yearn to touch her sweet cheek, caress her trembling hand.
Her patterned dress, a fashion plate of pink and silver pain, floated along the gravel path buoyed by high-heeled ribboned shoes, sustained by whalebone and the stiff brocade. Daffodils and squills danced a merry allemande with the wind and she sinks to the seat beneath the lime tree. Fragrant lime where passion bloomed, now stands gnarled with age. And I weep as she once did.
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