She wore her best linen… hair held high… daughter of a prince… eyes to the sun of horizon… dancing out the prayers for a ship to return… she a beach walker… bare feet during the mid summer months and watching the sand to bring her a sign of return… eyes fielding the land and sea in search for her familiar strider…
she wore linen… painstaking the craft in its sewing of pattern and of its patience and hope… and forward began the quiet stillness communique left a heart with imaginations… now the seasoned patterns took on a wearing at the stone…
She wore linen… like sands upon the shore cast and blast by doubt and even amidst the fury she kept her linen… as the days moved to decades there was a distancing from recollections of that inkling they called hope… and when the decades moved to millenia she began to stand as in solitaire wondering , the seemingly haunt began its Spirit decent to that thing called hope…
clinging to linen… now windward the rock of hope became a fixture of prayers suspended… the linen became a figment to many… but to this bare foot walker it was a lover’s vigil…
she wore linen even as the ages past and found others recalling amiss… the doubter’s rabbling at that these footprints would be found with no owner… and the linen walker would be only known as legend…
until… the horizon proved the reason… the reason she wore linen… a ship… familiar flag… and a familiar strider…
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