"The last time I saw her face
Her eyes were bathed in starlight
And she walked alone
The last time she kissed my cheek
Her lips were like the wilted leaves"

The last time he had seen her, he was standing at the bottom of the hill, beneath the clear blue sky pleading with her to reconsider her decision. The last time he saw her was ten years ago – in the summer of 1951. She was standing there, her back facing him, her pale skin a canvas of faded yellows, fresh blues and dark purples that bled together like watercolour paint – her bruises blossoming like flowers. She stood there, a lone figure at the top of the hill, pale blue frock fluttering in the air.

She was standing there, under the old hollow oak which he had carved their initials into, in the same spot as she had many years ago, but the tree was now bare and – the harsh autumn gale having stripped her of her fine emerald cloak, leaving her skeletal and austere, vulnerable to the slithering chill. The remnant of her cloak which once glimmered jewel-like in the sun were now a scatter of decaying brown leaves at her feet.

He had been happy once, even though it was a clandestine affair with his best mate's sweetheart. His friend who liked to solve problems with his fists. Throughout their tryst he could feel him looming in the background. She was still the same girl whom he’d climbed trees with, the last person found in hide and seek, and the girl he’d enthusiastically traded horror stories with. But the fire in her eyes had long burnt out. Her black locks masked her face, a vivid bruise peeking out. Her pristine and ironed frocks forced upon her by her mother replaced by a threadbare shabby coat.

He left. He left before she could see him, before her dark eyes could mirror his own. He left to the crunch of bruised muddy leaves beneath his polished leather shoes. He left her to the relentless rain pouring from the grey heavens, soaking his clothes – his wife would no doubt chide him for it later. Many years ago, he ran, daisies trodden under grass-stained white sneakers, the sun glaring unforgivingly at his back and into his mother’s embrace. His mother had now long passed on. In her place he had a loving wife, two children, a secure house and a stable income … and these indelible memories.

The last time he had seen her was a decade ago – in the summer of 1951, when he was still foolish and naive and dared to dream of fairytale endings. Once upon a time never seemed so far away.

"Upon the autumn covered hills

Resting on the frozen ground

The seeds of love lie cold and still

Beneath a battered marking stone

It lies forgotten"

–  The Last Time I Saw Her by Glen Campbell