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Mozzer


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Posted Wed Oct 22nd, 2008 12:18am Post subject: This came from glancing a young Wiltshire gardener at work
High summer, and the country air buzzed and crackled with the heat, humid and busy. The granite shouldered cottage, alone amid a wash of forest, nestled moist in bloom. She in soft sharp lemon dress, picked roses and cast them in a wicker basket at her arm. A broad hat made shade for her face; gloves like gauntlets made the soldier of her sylph. One thicker stem, reluctant to be plucked, caused her momentarily to doff the gloves. She gripped the stem low down, between her thumb and forefinger, and squeezed, making slender sinews in her forearm dance beneath the cool brown of her skin. The rose-branch almost hissed: its bark cracked, yielding sap at the pressure of the long, slim fingers and their nails, then broke, sagged limply, and was drawn into the basket. She paused for a second, gazing at the sky.

The basket down, she turned into the sun, stretching out her willow arms and throwing back her head. Nutmeg russet hair framed heart-shaped face; her dress, in crisp loose folds a perfect casement to her lissom frame which - only pressing tight against the dress at rare, enticing intervals - hinted vital, lithe and coltish, slender strength. Kicking off her sandals, and casting down her hat, she ran in fast, hard strides, her hair a flaming streamer in her wake that jounced and shuddered with the powerful rhythm of her steps. On, and up the hill, still gaining speed, she burst through trees, the lemon dress a fluttering billow in the wind her passing made, and at the sun-drenched summit she circled round and round, wolfing in the sun.

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