A Glimpse of black Lace

A fourteen-year-old boy with summer on his face. The thin Sunday morning sunlight brightening a shock of fair tousled hair, his watery blue eyes widened as though he was seeing the world for the first time. A boy in National Health issue spectacles, black round thin frames that cut through thin ears like wire through cheese. Worse, thick brown paper had been fitted across one lens, in an effort to correct a lazy eye.

Before crossing into the cool green copse I stood and watched a mother with her two young daughters as they waited at the bus stop bench.
Clean, starched white and ready for church.
Late August chased racing white clouds across ‘Warner's Farm’ in warm flurries. It would be a good day for the sailing.
The boisterous summer breezes fluttered about the three of them, the mother's skirts ballooned, billowing up around her like a floral spinnaker.
A glimpse of black lace...Her eyes momentarily met my gaze as her large red mouth pouted disapproval at her passive voyeur.
White ribbons danced out from beneath pretty dark curls as the little girls, laughing, swung dancing around the bus stop pole like queens of the May. Giggling, their skirts flying. As the pretty group made ready to board a bus, which slowly approached up the steep avenue. I continued watching, until the old tub of a bus rounded the corner at the top of the avenue, leaving me alone once again with Sunday morning.