The church in the valley chimes the hour as I go about my morning chores, feeding the ducks, collecting the fallen walnuts and picking mushrooms. Through the mist I see a flicker in the sky, the beat of a dragon wing in the dawn light, untidying the clouds…
She hides well. She lives inside a rumour, a suggestion of myth. We all know where she is, but pretend not to know. It’s better that way. Better that we co-exist in the half-light of of the coming day, or the fading of twilight, than the midday sun of truth…
I have two-dozen walnuts and seven mushrooms in the pockets of my apron. There are still berries in the bramble hedge, but it is past Michaelmas, so they will be bad, covered in the spit of the devil. I net the feathers out of the duck pond…
The church bells peal the hour twice, it is the local custom. The mist is rising off the river in the valley, thickening across the fields. It glows pink, and orange. I hear the bells distort. A rush of wind fills my ears and I look up…
14thcenturypoet 