Meanwhile in a sea bluff pine nestled cottage.
Everlorn regards her feathery familiar with a sort of quizzical smirk in the dimpling corners of her timelessly ever lovely mouth.
"How is your tea Certainly my lad? It does appear as though something's just occurred somewhere or the other."
Mr. C. bobs his head and spears a buttered scone from a pelican shaped serving dish by way of reply, eating it with a dainty avian relish.
Everlorn smiles a sphinx-like smile and hums a tune in time to wind blown raindrops which plop like saucy minnows against the cottage windows facing the sea. (Perhaps they are minnows at that or the frothing tongue tips of perpetually restless waves, when in Pan Asea the most fantastic phenomena assume an aspect of the everyday extraordinary.)
From out of the fog veiled pines all but soundless footsteps approach the sea bluff cottage door.
"Certainly, our guest is on the backward path leading toward my threshold." Honingcraft rises light as a puff of smoke from off her rocker, goes over to the dark red enameled wood burning cook-stove
which sits catty corner in the clever little old kitchen and begins making a fresh pot of vanilla almond cyanide for herself and the guest who has just now stepped through the door which opened and shut for and behind as if of it's own accord.
Homily Anyone who happens to live on an island lost somewhere in the deep secrets of, (only The Night knows where) silently accepts the tiny cup of aromatic vanilla scented cyanide from her sister soul and only friend, seeress Honingcraft.
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1371 times
Written on 2013-09-27 at 02:22
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The Pan Asea Caper III
Certainly is sipping warm honeyed sassafras tea using his beak as a straw when suddenly he looks up, around and through the Honingcraft cabin with an alert cast to his keen eyes.Everlorn regards her feathery familiar with a sort of quizzical smirk in the dimpling corners of her timelessly ever lovely mouth.
"How is your tea Certainly my lad? It does appear as though something's just occurred somewhere or the other."
Mr. C. bobs his head and spears a buttered scone from a pelican shaped serving dish by way of reply, eating it with a dainty avian relish.
Everlorn smiles a sphinx-like smile and hums a tune in time to wind blown raindrops which plop like saucy minnows against the cottage windows facing the sea. (Perhaps they are minnows at that or the frothing tongue tips of perpetually restless waves, when in Pan Asea the most fantastic phenomena assume an aspect of the everyday extraordinary.)
From out of the fog veiled pines all but soundless footsteps approach the sea bluff cottage door.
"Certainly, our guest is on the backward path leading toward my threshold." Honingcraft rises light as a puff of smoke from off her rocker, goes over to the dark red enameled wood burning cook-stove
which sits catty corner in the clever little old kitchen and begins making a fresh pot of vanilla almond cyanide for herself and the guest who has just now stepped through the door which opened and shut for and behind as if of it's own accord.
Homily Anyone who happens to live on an island lost somewhere in the deep secrets of, (only The Night knows where) silently accepts the tiny cup of aromatic vanilla scented cyanide from her sister soul and only friend, seeress Honingcraft.
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1371 times
Written on 2013-09-27 at 02:22
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text