Splendour in the grass

483

“Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower.” ~ William Wordsworth

She watched the house from the meadow. Would he come and find her, this splendour in the grass, or fight his urges for another day.  

He knew her place, below stairs, or at night in the small attic room. She wouldn’t be his first mistake but she intended to be his last.

But she knew he wanted her and she was not here to fail.

She lay back in the long grass, the summer heat prickled at her skin. She tugged her skirts up, letting the sunlight find her pale thighs. Thigh that would later be where he met his ruin

It was a story as old as time, Master and Maid but she was no ordinary maid, she was here for one reason only. To seduce, to change things.

He had told her he didn’t believe in witches when she had warned him about walking out late at night. He said it was “the superstition of an uneducated mind.”

She had bowed her head. He assumed him acquiesce but actually it was to shroud the smile threatening to burst across her lips.

His confidence would make this even easier. His closed mind would be his undoing.

She waited, she had all the time in the world, unlike him.

I am feeling the urge to write again. To dabble in fictitious waters. I don’t want to spook that urge so am really just playing with some flash fiction. I liked this picture, It reminded me of summer days, prickly heat, warmth, stillness, waiting and the vintage edit made me think of a bygone era and a maid waiting for a master….. or so he thinks. You know me, I love to make it creepy