Rise before May dawn, middle of meadow, wash face in dew.
Surrender all common sense: next man met so stunned by my beauty he insists on marriage.
And such a gullible, desperate, idiot that I almost fail to see the beautiful dog fox just twenty yards ahead.
Abrupt gasping halt, thinking “Christ – if that’d been a man, my luck really would have been in!”
But no: one arm (mine) wrenched up behind, another holding a sharp knife against my throat.
A rasping voice in my ear commands “Stand still my beauty – he’s stuffed – and it’s your turn next.”
Author bio: Recent writer, printmaker, east-coast orientated: http://sandra-linesofcommunication.blogspot.co.uk/ and links therefrom