I first saw her in a field filled with fox gloves and nettles. She was tall and slender, her copper sunset hair fell to the nape of her neck, she wore an oversized white dress which was stained with poppy heads around the hips, as her knuckles were bleeding that day, and from the spinning in the field the blood had caught onto the fibres of the fabric and discoloured it with the colossal spectrum of red and brown. Her face showed sheer serenity and when she looked up into the burning sky her eyes would crease up, which deepened the desolate crow’s feet in the corners of either eye. At the same time the thin strands of hair pulling out of her head from the cooling breeze blocked sections of the suns aluminous rays, which sent iridescent shades of white through the openings and would give her this air purity, and as she raised her neck so that her profile was in line with the landscape behind her, her collar bones would jut out in a manner which suggested an un-healthy diet or grim case of bulimia. Still that day she looked nothing more than a free fawn, escaping into the wonders of the forest and overcoming its naivety as it discovered new levels of observation. With every cautious step she took, a visible sense of confidence would over wash her body, and her head would crane further to view the ocean of pink and indigo in which she swam through. I still remember how her freckles disappeared from the rapidly growing pink opaque glow that spawned through her cheeks when she blushed after I told her how beautiful she was and how her eyes were always engrossed during the stories I entertained her with that day. Even though she is gone now, I can hear the golden notes of her masculine chuckle and smell the sweet scent of roses that she had massaged into the bony grooves of her décolletage.