THE EYES OF PENNY THIEME by David Arnold Hughes
I was intrigued by her smile but it was her eyes that told the story. For once, when my eye caught hers just for a moment I saw her inner being. She seemed to be in an enchanted land; a night forest, under the full moon. She had a brush in her hand and was painting the world as she passed through, leaping from stone to mossy log; a lacy aura trailing in her wake like some vaporous comet's tail as she danced between the dew drops light as a feather.
I was intrigued by her smile but it was her eyes that told the story. For once, when my eye caught hers just for a moment I saw her inner being. She seemed to be in an enchanted land; a night forest, under the full moon. She had a brush in her hand and was painting the world as she passed through, leaping from stone to mossy log; a lacy aura trailing in her wake like some vaporous comet's tail as she danced between the dew drops light as a feather.