There is lust in the eyes of the seasons as each take their turn. The rolling fields of green to turn to purest white in time, and then in turn to baron brown to sprout in green again. Continue reading “A breeze.”
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Category: Sagas
Rough to refined.
It takes an ardent attention to detail to make something from that that iron they bring in from the bogs. Half slag at best, many other smiths would throw it away. But it calls to be made pure. Continue reading “Rough to refined.”
The blaze.
Under stars of frozen light, careless to dark beneath them. Subject to winds which chill the bone and keep any warmth at bay. One huddles with who and what they have to escape the bite of ice. Continue reading “The blaze.”
A march.
Never has there been before or since that dream of mine, a face or life worth following to the hells of oblivion and beyond. Continue reading “A march.”
Splitting logs.
The crashing hit of axe on wood sounds as I split them this way and that. A sound which fills me with such joy to know what comes. Placing wood on wood to set it where I will, and down comes the crash to split and shatter again. Continue reading “Splitting logs.”
