An Offering

Consider this:

A cottage, upon a long expanse of soft green grass, nestled into a quiet cove of gentle, talkative trees, who all control each other’s dreams, and who whisper pretty nothings to the people as they sleep.

We press powdery flowers between the pages of books and slip them beneath the stacks which line the living room, forgetting to gather them back.

The cottage doors are small and we must stoop low to enter. Hestia has blessed the place with softened light and through open windows tumbles the sonorous hum of the world outside. Fig trees groan, ripe, fattened with pungent opportunity; fecund Earth swallows those that fall, and together with the mushrooms and the fungi and the fruitflies and the rodents who pad over well-worn paths, the Earth devours the fruits of her own gentle labour, transcribing their forms into a new translation for us to rediscover later.

We are sitting in peace by the fire one night, there is a hankering to read T.S. Eliot. Settling back down, you open the pages, revealing a shower of daisies which tumble dryly across my forehead.