Possessed by daydreams of Shakespeare's Ophelia and always verging, on the somewhat dramatic. Mildred took a tumble.
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Down she went, into the dark green waters of the cold pond, one inquisitive spring day.
As she gulped the murky depths, eyes staring at the disappearing sun, a lonely pond weed grasped her thrashing limbs.
It held on oh, so tightly to it's only visitor, well, apart from the odd shoe that is.
There she remained, her silvery cloak, mildewed to a delightful shade of pond scum green.
Fine slippers furred over and little toes, turned webbed and clawed.
Sometimes, when the moon is bright, Mildred can be seen walking the pond's edge.
Water droplets shining, in the soggy tendrils of her hair.
Dreaming, of joining the otters, in the river beyond the hill...
