Rooloo

You first notice Rooloo sat under an apple tree,

Slender, delicate brown hands decorated with golden rings and skilfully whittling away at some small statuette,

You ask yourself, "who is this child?" As two glossy chestnut eyes gaze upwards, yet never meet yours. To some, this sun-loved face, delicately freckled, appears strangely familiar, to others an utterly foreign sight. Certainly you are reminded of something, if not someone. 

What would it be like to run your hands through that hair? It's curlier than sheep's wool though seems just as soft and short enough for the perfect ruffle. 

Had you been any closer, perhaps you may have seen the faint panic in those gentle ox-eyes, or the way in which they twinkle when a butterfly flutters by.

Daring to take a step or two closer only greets you with the realisation that Rooloo is already gone, the only proof of the encounter being the swiftly disappearing scent of orange blossoms.