The footpath is as a well composed song, one that rises and slows, that welcomes both the shade and the bright sun in its ever morphing tempo.
Upon each side of the footpath were cheering crowds of spring flowers.
Into the eventide, the footpath wove itself upon the rising hill, rising in salute to the heavens that called.
The footpath meandered ahead as if Alice had dreamed it from wonderland.
The footpath was rutted, the soft spring mud had dried in the first heat of the new season leaving casts of every shoe. Amy picked her way over with care, mindful of what a twisted ankle would mean to the rest of her journey.
The footpath, though winding, remained the exact same width. The grey pea shingle was pale in the morning light and the recent rain gave a gloss to the wooden edges.
The footpath flowed through the bluebells, the incline so gentle that Izzy barely noticed that she was climbing a hill. Her feet fell to the earth softly, each step barely audible beneath the early morning birdsong.
After the rain of yesterday Karissa could see the dark mud of the path, yet the pine needles on top were already pale and moving with the breeze. She tilted her head toward the sun, feeling the gentle warmth, noticing how the sky was darker blue the higher she let her eyes wander.