Miss Elsie Ratchet
Sun eclipsed the ragged stone monolith above,
and light hesitantly edged its way into the glen.
The glimmer of morning dew upon heather,
rimmed the upper valley,
as light chased shadows along the creek cut floor.
Thatched roofs, one by one were light engaged, distinct,
while blue ethereal smoke like ribbons attached to sky,
marked the first morning fires stoked.
Miss Elsie Ratchet stood atop the milliners stoop,
her hob-nailed boot laden feet, apart,
rocking on her heels, rotund form swaying,
hands, matron-like, clenched behind,
happily watching day unfurl,
as if she alone had orchestrated it.
A bulbous woman,
with one heavy dark brow lower than the other,
and a one-eyed tick, like a constant winking,
with a nervous cud chewing and ruddy, round face,
and an innate wrought iron will and resolve.
With sun securing the glen,
Elsie relinquished and slipped inside the shop, bell reverberating,
flipped the open sign, and peered out one last time,
eye twitching, mouth busy, fully committed,
then disappeared; the pane now just a deep shadow reflection.
Day had begun, in Hatters Glen.
As Peace Reigns
Mushroom houses bask in shadowed light,
afoot the giant timbers,
yearning spires like pillars into the sky,
where flickering light glitters
and then paints the floor is confetti dots,
green cascades and mulching plots.
Meshed, the embracing vines,
woven like silk in a lofty rise,
while shards of light do fall amid the shade,
search-light streams of wonder,
exploring each leaf, bark and fruit,
in a peaceful array, as life in diversity, reigns.