There was once a little girl, so innocent and pure, with long blond hair, ******* in pink ribbons.
Who rode her bike every Sunday afternoon, up and down her street.
It was spring and the blossoms were blooming and the lambs were bleating merrily.
There was once a teenage girl, abused and misunderstood, with long black hair, untied to cover her face.
Who sat on her porch every Sunday afternoon writing poems about abuse and misunderstanding, darkness even death.
It was autumn and the blossoms had withered and the lambs had all grown up.
There was once a young woman, unloved and wanting, with long red hair, ******* into a bun.
Who walked up and down streets every Sunday afternoon, looking for love in all the wrong places.
It was summer and new plants where spouting and the lambs that had grown up had their coats shorn.
There was once an old woman, alone and regretful, with hair as white as the snow that fell.
Who sat in her rocking chair every Sunday afternoon crying about matters of the past, about time left and time lost.
It was winter and the sprouts were sprinkled with white glistening snow and the lambs that had grown up and been shorn, had grown back their thick, woolly coats.
Once, there was a box.
Inside that box, was a little girl.
So innocent and pure.
Who used to ride bikes, write poems, looked for love in all the wrong places and sat in a rocking chair every Sunday afternoon.
This Sunday afternoon, there was a service.
A service in memory of little girl, who was once.
It is spring and the blossoms are blooming and the lambs are once again bleating merrily.
By Hannah Antony