Runaway
An old woman clothed in white strides forth. She could be an escapee, a bride, a shrouded ghost, a nun. With indescribable emotion, she peers sideways at us.
Michaelmas daisies, symbols of departure, twine around around the thorny twigs which creep up the folds of her dress. To steady her step, she grabs at one of the trees which frame the taut blue space.
Unnaturally tall and with her head in the clouds, she seems to hover on a island, or perhaps the pinnacle of a hill. Her foot breaks the sky’s reflection in a puddle.
A painting is a kind of spell. Like a fairytale witch or troubled princess, she is captured here, eternally in flight.