Picnic at Hanging Rock (Weir, 1975)

All the eyes peered through white lace like a curious gaze through keyholes. A fawning wonderment washed the light over us, until we stood in a white silence, bare, and fragrant of the shedding wild flowers reddening our eyes. Could I have dreamed her? Was I napping in the sun with the dangling fantasies of fever?  She furrowed her chin in a brief moment of doubt, before the wind clung to her hair, and they were gone.

Their innocence bled from the soft bottoms of their feet leaving a path only a ghost, lonely, and depraved could follow. What words he’d share with the rest of them, should they find him. A nymph, he once loved, her image forever out of focus, back-lit, in the haze of flowery fields, like the rest, so lovely, scrolled in the jagged stone, and painted in the moss he gathers on the withered bodies of fallen trees.

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