Lilac hair–no, hydrangea hair. She carries a glass baseball bat with her, inside the bat swirled petals of the flowers. Twinkling sounds. A scent of morning dew and after-rain, she is all things fresh and pure, beloved. Her eyes are clear skies. Running barefoot again and always moving.
The Girl beloved by the Hydrangeas. Hello, Dot.
Back again in the rain
To spar with the Wilted.
Don’t step on the puddles.
There is a wilted Lilac. She spins a glass umbrella, strings of wilted flowers hang down from the ends, pieces of shattered glass mingle. Clinking, broken. Humming. She taints the flowers, throws Wilt into puddles. A spin. It’s always nice to have more friends.
She only ever comes out in the rain.
Lily-pads float at the surface of the puddles, like miniature ponds.
A crumpled suit and mussed hair, he runs his hands through lavender strands. Dot’s been running amok again. It’s a little tiring having to constantly rush after the reckless brat. Acting a bit too mature for his age, but there’s not much of a choice, is there? Aroma of sea lavender and black coffee. But he is a Hydrangea on two legs. Ticking. The kid’s late today.
He fixes his tie again, looking expectantly at the door. He holds a polka-dot umbrella (personal taste, this is a judgement free-zone) but he knows that it won’t be much use.
They’re afraid of hydrangeas.
Cigarette smoke that curls up into rain clouds, They exhale.
Bubbling around, petals rise from all around. Fall through. The world is inverted and blue-washed, water-washed. Water falls up. It’s not a safe place to be in. But it’s level-ground. Combat-zone.
Door opens to a watery world. Sunshine smile in a rain-down world. Raindrops that splatter into bursts of music, small sighs. A glass umbrella twirls somewhere. A watch is still ticking.
Willow is weeping. Lily-pads begin to bubble up. Faint violin. The Night has started again. But something’s off.
The rain isn’t stopping this time.