Sting, crimson. callouses split, whipped by elm handle, again, ichor thick, viscous, 'tis evening blood, and with it dirt and dust dark.
" 'Tis time little lark," hoarse, familiar, Luska bites with no teeth, warns with no bark, but they both agree. "Always to last on my round, you are. The others are a' waiting."
Head bows low, searching mud and stem, wheat stalk and the rhythm of its sway, but his ears hear chain, and iron, how she sigh with content come a heavy swig.
The road they know by heart, but Selune a sliver their guide, lady silver lantern casts light atop hole, and thick branch, but there is little to ponder about, or to speak of - there's Giacomo, Lorenzo, twin Bianca and Luna and more, all brother and sister blood, cracked lips part with a smile.
Sting, crimson, callouses split, whipped by lady gale and baron zephyr, again , ichor trickles, 'tis evening blood, and with it dirt and dusk dark, but together they march, bent and bowed, herded between Luska the copper laugh and Rydd the dagger ear. "Always last, that one," through a squint, there was no malice in his eye, he thought, and siblings share word of the day, or a rumour come spill, that is their lot in life, and tonight, it is old rye and cabbage, with rare honey drizzle, of water there's plenty.
"And to mother grain thanks, for this feast, and yield plenty, and she be guide to the scythe in our hands, and our hearts merry at sight of fields gold . . " their voices union, from father Amberto, and eldest Piero, to little Gina and him, in the middle. Shadows joyous in candle lick, mud hut squat, but full, of beating hearts and busy hands, how his family kept to it, the boy did not know. He knew the fields, and Count Ebber, to search boots and not eyes. "Your eyes be honey trap," father said, once, how his pale browns lingered in wonder, "But some folk are bees, not flowers. And you will be stung if you keep that look!"
THWUCK.
Hay hiss, the wound grievous - pitchfork high, higher than the sun, in clouds, he sees life, in tree shadow rest. 'Tis his lot and he knew no different, wished for little. Ebber's demesne stretched by the tree bend, arable and fine, they've took to boulder and root and now, there was only this. They'd wake the sun with prayer and a bite of rye, and watch it die in vivid red and purple, and with none is witness, as it often was, pale browns stuck to like honey trap, and saw beating green and mournful blue, as if the entire world came to halt with song. But sometimes, Luska would come and watch him work.
"Make sure ye nay run off little lark."
And he would pause each time, throbbing fingers, kiss of sweat, of toil, and he would look around - 'tis him he saw, and the field, hay stacked fine, elm handle sleek with ichor dark. Where would I go?
" 'Tis time little lark," hoarse, familiar, Luska bites with no teeth, warns with no bark, but they both agree. "Always to last on my round, you are. The others are a' waiting."
Head bows low, searching mud and stem, wheat stalk and the rhythm of its sway, but his ears hear chain, and iron, how she sigh with content come a heavy swig.
The road they know by heart, but Selune a sliver their guide, lady silver lantern casts light atop hole, and thick branch, but there is little to ponder about, or to speak of - there's Giacomo, Lorenzo, twin Bianca and Luna and more, all brother and sister blood, cracked lips part with a smile.
Sting, crimson, callouses split, whipped by lady gale and baron zephyr, again , ichor trickles, 'tis evening blood, and with it dirt and dusk dark, but together they march, bent and bowed, herded between Luska the copper laugh and Rydd the dagger ear. "Always last, that one," through a squint, there was no malice in his eye, he thought, and siblings share word of the day, or a rumour come spill, that is their lot in life, and tonight, it is old rye and cabbage, with rare honey drizzle, of water there's plenty.
"And to mother grain thanks, for this feast, and yield plenty, and she be guide to the scythe in our hands, and our hearts merry at sight of fields gold . . " their voices union, from father Amberto, and eldest Piero, to little Gina and him, in the middle. Shadows joyous in candle lick, mud hut squat, but full, of beating hearts and busy hands, how his family kept to it, the boy did not know. He knew the fields, and Count Ebber, to search boots and not eyes. "Your eyes be honey trap," father said, once, how his pale browns lingered in wonder, "But some folk are bees, not flowers. And you will be stung if you keep that look!"
THWUCK.
Hay hiss, the wound grievous - pitchfork high, higher than the sun, in clouds, he sees life, in tree shadow rest. 'Tis his lot and he knew no different, wished for little. Ebber's demesne stretched by the tree bend, arable and fine, they've took to boulder and root and now, there was only this. They'd wake the sun with prayer and a bite of rye, and watch it die in vivid red and purple, and with none is witness, as it often was, pale browns stuck to like honey trap, and saw beating green and mournful blue, as if the entire world came to halt with song. But sometimes, Luska would come and watch him work.
"Make sure ye nay run off little lark."
And he would pause each time, throbbing fingers, kiss of sweat, of toil, and he would look around - 'tis him he saw, and the field, hay stacked fine, elm handle sleek with ichor dark. Where would I go?