Meadow Mist
Today’s story was inspired by a photo my friend Lynn Hardaker shared.
Dog in hand, she watched the mist rise from the meadow and confer with the morning sun before transforming into ghosts.
Some were a long time dead, others less than a year lost. She sprinkled desiccated herbs in the air, throwing handfuls into the freezing sky.
The faery scented the hollowed seeds as they fell to the floor, crawling out of the bark and dirt, to gnaw on the boon.
They noticed the woman first, but she had taken precautions, circling her feet with dried mushrooms and blessed bones.
Instead, the faery turned to the ghosts, tasting their confusion and sensing no threat. With twigged hands, they reached up and cradled the fragile tapered dead. Then, with words the woman only vaguely understood, the faery led the lost away until they found a path once more.
Steve Toase -Wir essen immer bei Kerzenlicht 