On The Light Mist...

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On the light mist of the evening, she would tread upon the newly formed stars, their lights blinking into abundance which would soon rain down from the drifting clouds. She blessed each one with a gentle sweep of her fingers across the sky. The black sky above her emptied, the lights fell onto the earth and ran into the rivers, rising to twinkle along the surface on their journey out to sea.

Into The Freeze...

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Into the freeze, they sat huddled in the carriage as it rolled among the swirling ice winds. All the world was white, save the black, trodden path and sleeping trees. They reached the largest, a black spire on the road, it's branches spiking up towards the pale heavens. Here they dismounted, they approached the trunk and lay their stiff hands upon it. The air quickened its pace, circling the tree and pulling them ever closer to the hard bark with every gust. They were pressed flush against it, and the warmth came. A stirring in the dead shell, a pooling glow of life awakening started to seep through. 

Always Now, His Head Was Forever Bowed...

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Always now, his head was forever bowed. His feet clung more closely to the ground, unwilling to leave the hard comfort of the pavement. His whole world became stone grey, as his cloudy sighs dulled the air. 

It Was The End Of The Winter...

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It was the end of the winter, and the frost still clung to them with an icy lightness. They gleamed like a fresh moon, clothes and skin as white, as they danced together on a frozen ground. Their heart flames, fanned by the circling delight, saw their embers glow, sending burning bursts along their veins and delicately thawing spots of skin. Small buds appeared where the heat had touched, unfurling, with increasing rapidity into pastel-coloured spring blooms.

They Kept It In A Frame...

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They kept it in a frame, crinkled slips of paper threaded together, a reminder of the old days of flight. The wings forever propelling forward, ceaselessly breaking itself against its wooden cage.

It Was A Bundle...

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It was a bundle, this little bird. Tucked inside a mess of moss, it dozed in the fading light. A greying blue bib of down held it's head, with beads of eyes blinking into evening sleep. A small figure peeked through the branches, watching the feathers soften with slumber, watching the bird descend into dreams of flight.

In The Morning the Hands Were Busy...

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In the morning the hands were busy, twisting the threads between tapering fingers. The cracked nails expertly avoided snagging the delicate threads, which spun themselves in and out of the warming light and last shadows, which still clung around the corners of the room. When at last the arms tired, unable to keep up with the fizzing delight of the fingers, the threads fell onto a lap swathed with bright wool, to slumber until the next rising sun.