PHOTO PROMPT© CEAyr
The sun was fading as Sal approached the Widow, the crag black against a golden sky. The breeze was chill, autumn coming on before her time.
Producing the flowers from her apron pocket, her voice shook as she spoke.
‘Widow, I bring you rosemary for remembrance of him I lost. Heather for an earnest wish come true. Windflower for anticipation of my dear man’s return.’
Hands quivering, she placed the stems in the rocky hollows, the stone cold and rough against her fingertips.
The breeze blew against her ear like a warm breath carrying a whisper.
Windflower for fading hope …