A cashmere butterfly alighted upon a bloom, a bloom of dollar roundness and of dollar-hue. Above it shone a daytime moon, for the sun though flambeaux bright was quite out of sight: cosseted, cosy, ensconced within a fresh wash of cloud. And, then in greatest number, as if each were summoned by a different blossom, a flock fluttered down. Upon that green disc, they were nature’s living crown. There was something so transporting in the expanse of that idle post-noon: a dream, a wish most pleasant, a sauntering sense of wonder. And so it was with blithest serenity that the advancing lit hours bowed to starlight’s entreaty.
As a giggle of spokes and beams, the bicycle traversed the shadow road and bounded up the polka-daisy incline. As a steady steed it momentum-galloped, chain at maximum torque, summing the preceding downhill with its rider’s anticipatory glee. Tyres as black ferris-wheels turned. Its suspension rendered bumps smoother than a merry-go-round horse. Then upon the lit brow, prettiest panorama all around, it absorbed the joy of the inhaling second. Ariah gave it a pat-pat before alighting to dream beneath summer-clothed boughs, ensconcing herself upon a grass cushion, her notebook and pen at the ready.
The flute sang to the stars until their deepest hearts did pulse. In return the heavens did not sing, yet poured as water into the valley and remained there as star-freckled blackest ink. This, my friends, is no legend of old, for I saw it with my own eyes. I felt it with my own hands. I swam in its perfect ambiance, for it was both warm and sweet. As I dived within the flute music returned and oxygen did inflate my lungs. My pilot light burned brighter, swelling my heart anew. The flute I played that day is with me still, a humble yard of silver, a 'cup and string' telephone that divinity chose to answer.
New-night black was the bicycle, smugly shadow ensconced. Its spokes whispered secrets into a discreet wind. Strain as they might, the words slipped ears grasp, dissipating as easily as an early fog. Tree boughs stooped lower, vainly attempting an eavesdropping. Moles' ears did unplug. Even beetles paused their scurry. Owls, heads askew, puzzled. For all knew the wind was a messenger, a keeper of the code, an encryptor for the fairy folk. And, upon that enchanted thing did ride such a mage, a girl of The Velvet Cloak. Yet should her metal steed be stolen, or otherwise half-inched, a cold dead thing it would be. Magic, you see, is a personal friend, a sense of love from beyond the mortal veil - and this girl was their most treasured one.
Daffodil bonnets waved in a well lit breeze, a capering cadence, a well rooted riot of tamest ease. Through winter they’d slumbered, bulbs cradled in full-dark. Come first softening, come the flow of ice-banished rain, green wands tarried not. No! No! Up, up they came. The tight buds of March graduated in April, and how handsome was their flock! Of beauty they gave in ample generosity. Of scent they gave the same! Ne’er was a floral chorus more bright-bold, more bass-baritone, more strident in the declaration of spring’s sweet song.
Upon the hill brow that sweet morrow, frosted as it was, I saw a grin of white. Or perchance, I suppose, 'twas a frown. Either way, those pearly glimmers were whale-ish in all respects. So tiny! So many! So broad-a-beam!