Old Mother Tattersley’s dappled hand gripped the willow twig. As she stirred, she hummed steadily. Not a tune, more the score of a bumble bee.
The acrid steam spiralled, its droplets pocking the gnarled beam; simultaneously, the left shoelace of Reginald Tait unwound serpent-like.
Mother Tattersley’s drone strengthened. Miniature wings flashed in the steam, disappearing like falling glitter.
Inkblot wound around her, purring. Leaning over the pan, she drew in a lungful of magic and blew.
Outside, Reginald Tait stooped towards his shoelace. The icicle in the eaves plummeted down.
No road would be built through Mother Tattersley’s house.
Helen Laycock almost 6 years ago
After three years, I thought I should pay Drablr a visit!
Michael Cook almost 6 years ago
And a very poetic visit you have given us Helen!
Helen Laycock almost 6 years ago
Thank you, Michael!