How I envision Luna witnessed the death of Mrs Lovegood, and how she would have sensed the instability of her mother's nature despite being so young.
A bowl of water with mud and rice,
Stirring sticks all made of ice.
The air is sweet and fit for play,
Although, not often, do I stay.
Not so tall, my eyes just meet,
That cherry wood with pallor feet.
What will it be this summer time?
Glass to gems, water to wine?
Playing in the river streams,
Chocolate eggs in grass so green.
Will it be like winter days?
Fish with wings and lightening rays?
Tinged with navy, our cheeks glow,
Angel patterns in the snow.
A recurrence of your plight,
With rope encircled, gripped with fright?
Father moved me from that way,
Once more hidden from your forray?
Standing on that cherry chair,
Blonde hair wild, and grey eyes stare.
He did not come, and then it came,
The fire flamed in ice cold game.
The explosion cut, and flesh did flare,
You hopped away with silver hares.
Their ghost-like wonder I did see,
When I sensed that you were free.
I look up, yet it stings with blue;
Smiled with droplets falling through.
~ Shelley Rusalki