In amongst the oldest shadows of this house, on pages strewn in the ebb tide of winter the storytellers memories lie. Skeletal lines await a passing glance that they may live again.
As March approaches, thin splintered sunlight finds a pathway through the shuttered windows. Dust rises and falls, silently, not quite a whisper in this muted damp air, but spring will bring life as it will bring hope and desire.
Faded damask worn from life, like a thread erased and replaced with stories. How a thumb caressed the smooth silk pattern that meanders there still, maybe in shadows creation lingers here.
Bookshelves of a dreamer scattered spaces still to fill, trinkets of stone and bone, of feathers and seeds. Portals to an existence yet to be heard. Can a room dismissed to history narrate without words. Is death the final page of everyone.
Moonlight changes everything and lends its sparkle to the eyes, shadows lengthen and fall beyond these walls, silently they evaporate boundaries, they become pathways through the dark to the dreamer now.
The land is at rest within shallow breaths of the waters edge, ripples unfurl like the deepest sigh of a weary traveller who knows not how he came here, but is thankful for the pause in this tempestuous life.
Water takes on its darkest hue, blackest liquid to stain the night with mystery. The interloper returns through this ink filled inlet, to explore, to be enthralled.