Colourful hatter, jiving with the knifing, bending telephone poles brought the platter, the wide platter before him, empty but for reflections of the hats and the faces and the colours in the sky. Raging hair spread throughout the borders of the military land, drums cracked and the whistles ached with the cry, rumours of smells that told like birds. Few rained in the back pantry, little came down in the tiled nook between three and three quarters of walls, where the air is clear and you can’t see further than you can reach.
Tongue twisters for the little ones in frills, and they said it again sitting in the upstairs windows and bowing poles, they came down like useless combs with so few teeth, fewer tines than a gapped fork. The way their eyes wandered, and their walls followed after, mingling and complexifying like the nets of interweaving ripples on the ponds between rushes, mingling like the fingers of lovers and the gnats in their stormy dance. There was room enough for swords and more.
Tricked out, frills and wit, stepping along the colours into the clear white sky.