A messy, sun-kissed kid with scraggly blonde hair pulled haphazardly into a long ponytail. It swings down her back, carefree in its knots and curls. She’s content to have it held back, not having to worry about getting it caught in branches or other people’s fingers.
In Spring there are lambs. They prance and jump along the sides of fences, curious and fearless, days old. Their parents are almost cartoonish, and their wool gets caught in brambles and bushes. She runs across a stone wall, waving bluebells in their eager faces.
There are raspberries too. Vibrant, pure and tangy. They stain her fingers and cramp the corners of her jaw. Their scent fills the air, mixing sweetly with flowers and sheep. The sky darkens. Her mother calls her name across the bright green field. Her shiny blonde head whips around instinctively, wildflowers clutched in her freckled fist. She is reluctant to leave her fantasy.