(part 3)

Pansylee VanMeteren Illustrator, Author, Poet, Songwriter Lyricst, Artist of WV - The Muse - Poetic Pastries - ©™Official Poetic Pastries Web Header(posted only here-Part 3): Among those that lived in the ancient spot was a giant of a fisherman, dubbed Morin. The tiny village had all but forgotten his given name from birth ~ this mantle he carried for most of his lifetime, for in all the land he brought more fish from the sea than any other. Whispers swirled that he was offspring of the water, he this quiet figure whose shadow appeared to consume the sun.

Morin cast his face over the knoll and patted his foot in the rich soil. The old timber stump creaked beneath him. Clicking his tongue in a gentle chiding. “That gal, ere she be the end of me, she will.” Brown locks tipped with silver gently laced his disapproving gaze. The appearance of age could be found only upon his temples and the striping of his beard. Morin knew that Ursa would take the long, winding road…the path which grazed the Hall of Delane. He cocked his head, suddenly in deep thought. Had that young upstart Thaddeus returned from his travels? Morin searched his thoughts like a sea-salt rowing oar. Methodically he turned back conversations…and just as dragonfly landed on his hat…he went pale. “Yes,” he mumbled, “that haughty sot has returned.” The dragonfly had no imagination how close it had come to a fatherly wrath. Instead, it lifted up in to the air, carefree ~ oblivious.

“Daughters, humph, I be cursed with the lot of them. And me a fair minded man, honest in my ways! What wrongs have I bestowed on nary any one soul?” No sooner than Morin spoke, a hawk pierced the heavens with a chastising shriek. Morin lowered his head, and peered up beneath the brim of his hat. “I have said that was atoned. That was atoned.” A minor archival skirmish was Morin’s shame, for a man his size and girth, but the incident was no small matter for the Renan the ale-man, who was half Morin’s size.

Decidedly chided more than enough, his resolute determination set his frame into motion. He heaved himself towards the sun basked hill, a pendulum thrust into the wind. “Home,” he whispered the word prayerfully. “I’ll wait for her at home.”  All the while of his journey, just out of reach, the dragonfly curiously darted. He thought only once, to shoo it away but resolved himself to relish the company on the long walk home.


Pansylee VanMeteren Illustrator, Author, Poet, Songwriter Lyricst, Artist of WV - The Muse - Poetic Pastries

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