From the hills in the early dawn,Small, thin, mist-wreathed, she came upon him;Hair sodden to the brow,Eyes like agates,Lips apart, tongue flicking at words frozen in her head.Gliding to his feet, She caught his hand and said’come help me, mister, or she’ll be dead.

From the hills in the early dawn,Small, thin, mist-wreathed, she came upon him;Hair sodden to the brow,Eyes like agates,Lips apart, tongue flicking at words frozen in her head.Gliding to his feet, She caught his hand and said’come help me, mister, or she’ll be dead.

– Catherine Cookson –

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