From beneath the leaves and twigs of the year gone by they come. Heralded by the fleeting snows and rising sun, nourished by rain and breeze alike, they emerge from the ground below. Continue reading “The shoots.”
Many times I had gone by those fields where fortune flowers. My wealth was noticed on the path and where those paths did lead. Continue reading “Flowering fields of fortune.”
Upon the lands of forebears where farms and forests are, so many lives would toil and hunt beneath sun and countless stars, to all who would come after them that land would be a gift, and knowing well their place it was that there would be no rift.
That which weaves which cannot be broken, as sleep is to death as birth to awoken. Continue reading “Life walks on.”
Further away than our village limits, even beyond the lonely farms, the river Quith rolls off the mountains and down the steepest hills. Upon the hill which holds the Quith is a mill from ages past. A giant water wheel was there with spinning stones both thick and vast. And as the waters came to pass, they went back to the same, they turned with speed that giant wheel and joined the Quith again. Continue reading “The old mill.”