The Mist Had Moved Mountains...

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The mist had moved mountains, turning them to sky; a sky of melting clouds that ran with colour. They seeped into her shadow and behind her eyes, and she hid in its folds. The damp air bewitched her fingers, she swept them through the vapours, absorbing time.

The Flowers Borne of Winter...

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The flowers borne of winter rose like tiny dark skeletons. They broke earth as light strengthened, black pins that sliced soil and awkwardly unfolded into form. Brittle as sheet ice, they were ghosts made of pale days; paper-thin corpses that resurrected under the breath of air. Bobbing in the breeze, they danced a death-dance, for it was the only life they'd ever known, and their flower-heads shook out the bewitching scent of sleep.

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The Forest Had A New King...

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The forest had a new king. He took his throne in Downward Dell, quite by force, for his silver paws were strangers among the pines and they had come a long way. Among his treacherous attendants were the spies, small monochrome birds with tufts of antennas. They plucked out the riches and brought him a crown of thistle, to sit upon the pearl fur now installed on the seat of petrified majesty. He lost no claws that day, but the sun was settling and the dark night rains grew creepers everywhere.

She Sailed Amongst The Tangled Roots...

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She sailed amongst the tangled roots that curled and rolled together in a threaded mass, veins of waves that pulled in its prey. The trunks that fed from this viperous sea bloomed an evergreen crown, shining forever amidst a bleak sea. She blew on her sails and rose higher among the coils, glimpsing leaves that rippled like radiant scales. At the sight of her they began to shiver and scatter, falling down to her like tiny, papery flakes.

The Bed Broke...

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The bed broke. Her cluster of spring jewels, so neat and silent in their burrows below the grey, worn earth, sensed the dilating light and sliced through the frozen soil to meet the burning beams of February. The ground trembled, and soil tumbled over, breaking black as it made way for the army of sweet green things. Restless, they sought out the fresher air and drove beyond the last leaves of decay, unfurling into the lingering twilight, their snowbells chiming merrily with the lush evensong that drifted, feathery, from trees.

She Danced Among The Wheatears...

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She danced among the wheatears, in cinder-fallen fields,
She danced among the gossamer, until the sky revealed
Within its cloak the softest song, of ice and grey delight
That fell into her open arms, and turned the lea to light.

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September's Dusk Ran Over...

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September's dusk ran over the farm, and night shadows grew in the tiny windows. The velvet heather swayed as the air cooled, its faint scent rolling over the hill. In the workers' cottages, heads were downed on pillows, the souls wandering in new fields - sowing new seed, harvesting new dreams. They felt like they lived there forever.