I never did like people with red hair;
at school, it was not long before I met
one so afflicted with this colourful
attribute, that she glowed like a candle,
burned the skin of any who came near,
with words of ridicule, or unkindness.
From that day, I catalogued the colour
as one to be avoided at all costs.
When I cried, my Mother would comfort me,
tell me to ignore the flying insults
or teasing words of
Mary Pond. Her name
follows me to this day, while my Mother's
dark, auburn hair has long since dimmed and died
and all but faded from my memory.
Before my first baby was born, I prayed
“Please, let it be well – and not be ginger!”
I got my answer. She had long, black hair;
but in three days, it turned to bright copper...
Love laughed loud.“
So much for old prejudice.”
IGWRT's challenge today got me writing. After fourteen lines, the flow of thought was interrupted, before I added another five. Now, I'm not sure whether I should have stopped at fourteen? Does it feel complete to you too, at that point? I wonder...
