On Midsummer's pathway the cloaked men carved faces in oak trees. Yarn whispers tangled at their feet, awaiting barter.
The ink-stone carries no shadow in moon’s presence. Of maps lost, they dreamed a glean; see The Silent Harbour.
Beneath the blueberry moon: An echo of an owl, drew patterns of forgotten myth wars.
Spiral drown, cosmos folded - brass whispered tales of time's tail, its secret whim concealed, encrypted by a stray fin.
Meticulous stitching; a tapestry of echoes resonate, across forgotten isle's glowing moraine. Observe.
Slow eclipse devours the palace where the translucent ancestors idle without chase toward the river’s silent fondness.