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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.

3 comments add one below

  • avatar

    Helen Laycock over 2 years ago

    After three years, I thought I should pay Drablr a visit!

  • avatar

    Michael Cook over 2 years ago

    And a very poetic visit you have given us Helen!

  • avatar

    Helen Laycock over 2 years ago

    Thank you, Michael!

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