The memory of her father was a blur.
She recalled him being flinty and austere;
to even get close to him, she felt as if she’d
have to scrape the barnacles from his rough keel.
So Prudence retreated into her sterile cocoon,
an attempt to bolster her burnished and brittle heart.
But her torrent of tears drenched her bodice,
leaving a taste like chalk on her tongue.
Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – WORDLE #58