The wind was moaning across the moor, reaching its long, cold fingers over the icy heath and dragging a billowing blanket of frozen crystals over the bending heather. A figure, tall and thin, stood with her head into the wind. At her feet, on a tangle of twigs, a little bird perched. One dark eye blinked as it stared up at the girl’s chapped cheeks. Framing her face, amber waves blew back in a tangled mane of frost misted ringlets. As the wind gave a sudden gust, the bird shuddered, but kept erect with its beak titled upward. Through the girl’s hazy blue eyes, the cold, gray world seemed to be alive. The Wind, a swirling, curling creature with thousands of fingers stirring the breeze, weaved through the desolate moor, singing a song. It was a song of ancient days, when each breath of wind was of the sweetest taste. It sang of vast oceans, from where it had once been fingering the tides. It sang of rain and thunder, hail and hurricanes. It sang of pain, it sang of death. It sang of sacrifice, it sang of betrayal. It wasn’t the wind’s song. It had simply been given a melody and repeated it with its breathy sighs. It was really Ophelia’s song, written within her own soul and placed in the palm of the wind.
The wind was moaning across the moor, reaching its long, cold fingers over the icy heath and dragging a billowing blanket of frozen crystals over the bending heather.
A figure, tall and thin, stood with her head into the wind. At her feet, on a tangle of twigs, a little bird perched. One dark eye blinked as it stared up at the girl’s chapped cheeks. Framing her face, amber waves blew back in a tangled mane of frost misted ringlets.
As the wind gave a sudden gust, the bird shuddered, but kept erect with its beak titled upward.
Through the girl’s hazy blue eyes, the cold, gray world seemed to be alive. The Wind, a swirling, curling creature with thousands of fingers stirring the breeze, weaved through the desolate moor, singing a song.
It was a song of ancient days, when each breath of wind was of the sweetest taste. It sang of vast oceans, from where it had once been fingering the tides. It sang of rain and thunder, hail and hurricanes. It sang of pain, it sang of death. It sang of sacrifice, it sang of betrayal.
It wasn’t the wind’s song. It had simply been given a melody and repeated it with its breathy sighs. It was really Ophelia’s song, written within her own soul and placed in the palm of the wind.