A child full of Autumn sun, not peturbed by the gathering storm, makes them with giggle tinged breath and an urgently dipped stick .
Gliding magical mirrored globes.
Float towards a fuscous sky.
They rise. Drift.
Reflecting a violet wing over a chalk hill. Remains of an impromptu picnic. A hand held, just a little too long, on the tartan check. They see the glance. The colouring of that cheek that he slides his against. To whisper in her ear. They see the beginning of something but keep their secrets safe as with a quick liquid burst they are gone.