Flowers Fade...

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Flowers fade. They tinge, and the taint seeps into their hearts. The last blooming beat of daisy, periwinkle or rose creates a potent perfume, which fills the air with a scented song of longing, of forgetting. They are retreating into the dark, and their unfledged buds are bowed before their time.

The Moth Of Gold...

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The moth of gold would only light upon one soul during its sweet life of grey, misty nights. It lived along the rails, steam and smoke percolated the days and the greyness would never end. Then one day the moth chanced upon a platform, high lamps glowed above and the moth's heart burst with desire to shine as bright. The wish burned so fully that slowly a gold light began to flicker in his breast. As he danced along lonely streak of stone, he came across a child, whose face glimmered in the lamplight. He saw in the child's eyes a peculiar, curious glitter and he loved it, and wanted to know it so completely he became enflamed with his own golden desire and he shone, like the purest drop of sunlight, hanging in the sky. The child reached out, fingertips delighting with the molten wings, and they sang to each other, as the grey turned to charcoal night.

They Always Cherished...

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They always cherished the time they spent there, under the tumbling vines and between the walls that opened to the summer sky. Soon, all the bright blooms that had scattered themselves around the broken walls began to fade, and wither back within the cracks and crevices of stone. All that remained were the roses, their heads hung limp as their beauty dimmed with the harsh winter winds, but their attachment to their thorny home held them fast, and so it was these last flowers that were the first to be plucked when the lovers returned.

The Snow Fell In Great, Shaking Drifts...

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The snow fell in great, shaking drifts. Every bare branch and seam of broken bark was waylaid with a caking of frozen snow. All held still in the snowlight, the world whitened and fell into a new kind of silence. Every creature stayed home, curled into nest and burrow, awaiting the glow of the spring sun.

She Took It Up Again...

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She took it up again, the yarn she'd left twisted and half-done on a pair of needles. She didn't know what she made, it was just fingers clicking and wrapping line after line of knitted yarn, never thinking, never rising into any sort of being. It was still winter, and her shoulders still hunched against the coldness seeping through the walls, still hunched against the ash skies and dreary gloom. The fire didn't burn brightly these days, coal remained rationed and all the chairs about the place were brought ever closer to the grate. The feeble flames sent a skimming sort of warmth across her knuckles and her quarry grew longer, a straight ribbon of grey that mirrored the long clouds outside.

The Wind Was Wild...

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The wind was wild, she was intent on tearing all the wood asunder. A lonesome bird, the last of his kind, broke through her thrall and plucked the last bloom of summer from a withering stem, a red as rust rose, and flew with her high into the air, above the breaking branches, sending her scent swirling around the wintering wood.

He Hid Them While The Rest Slumbered...

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He hid them while the rest slumbered, deep in the age-old wood, near the roots of a tree full in leaf, in amongst the tumbling thorns and flowers of the forest floor.