Of Tales and Tea

Oh March; month of lions and lambs, of ides and days dressed in green, month of spring fever and frost on the glass, days with daffodil rain, lemon light thick enough to be cut like cake and rose sunsets pouring like tea. Mad as a hare and twice as late. Month to keep those jumpers on over dresses and to keep hearts safe and close, else they slip through your fingers and fall through the too thin ice...

Today was stormy and grey, flat calm and sunshine, nothing has bloomed and we’ve removed all the clocks... It’s days like this that I wish my hair was honey gold, my skin was porcelain pale and seeped daylight and my lips were peaches. But my hair is as black as coal and the night is in my veins, my skin is snowlight and starlight and my lips are stained by cherries; their pips piled high for curses. I’m the type of girl who carries books bound in leather and falls for wolves and hunters and poets, the type of girl who slips through the cracks in the universe or wanders off the edge of maps. I’m the girl in the red dress, the girl bargaining with apples and covered in soot. I’m the girl who knows too much about knots, who sits behind a wall of thorns and knows for certain the only man who could make his way through, will find himself there by getting so badly lost...