The moment the flood was considered calmed, a hare stopped still amidst the spiky sainfoin and trembling bluebells and said a prayer to the rainbow framed in the spider's web.
O. The precious stones revealed now diminishing, - the flowers that have seen it all before.
In the clarty high street, stalls had been set up and tied-up boats dragged towards the sea, swelled up like an illustrated prints.
Blood flowed at Bluebeard's – by the slaughter-houses, into the corries, where God's work blootered the windows. The blood and milk flowed.
Cowboy builders beavered away. The “mazagrans” steamed in the tearooms.
In the big green house the panes still dripped. The mourning children peered at the amazing images.
A door banged, and, in the village square, the wee boy birled his arms, weathervanes and steeplecocks, well aware, under the bursting rain.
Madame XXX set up a piano in the Alps. Mass and First Communions were celebrated at the thousands of cathedral alters.
A convoy set out and the Hotel Splendid got built in the chaos of the icy arctic night.
Ever since, the moon has heard the jackals howling across the thyme wilderness and the lyrical verse of clogging hooves growling in the orchard.
Then, in the violet forest burgeoning, flitting Eucharis told me it was Spring. - Secret, lagoon; - froth, roll across the bridge and over the trees – widows weeds and organs, thunder and lightning, rise and roll; - Sweats and sorrows, rise and revive the floods.
Since they dissipated, - oh the precious stones bury themselves and the flowers bloomed! - What a bore! And the Queen, the witch who alights the fire in her cauldron, won't ever want to tell us what she knows, and what we do not know.