A Tree-Lined Market

By: Kitarel Posted on: December 24, 2009

Her hands are rough from wear

Though her eyes still bright with pride.

She watches from her cozy oak

And welcomes those inside.

Her face is bent in concentration

Towards her whittled craft.

Though she always has time to greet you

Here at Eleusian Woodcrafts. Carefully she works her fingers

Straight unto the bone.

Chiselling a pot or vial

With a crude tool made from stone.

A curious sight to see

Within the Eleusian Inn.

A curious little barstool

That only reads 'Merlin'.

The man behind the counter

Offers a quick smile or a tale.

A pretty little serving wench

Fills your tankard with ale.

'Sit down for a moment or two

And grab yourself a bowl.

The moose is freshly stewing

And the venison is gold.'

Amerante turns and is gone

Back to the kitchen to stir the pot.

Everything is delicious

And happiness can be bought.

Miss Miri is a mistress

To the delicious clay cupped teas.

Her beauty for a human

Is a rare sight indeed.

'Have you tried the cranberry?'

She tuts softly as she walks.

'Or perhaps the mint,' she asks.

'I'll grab you one more cup!'

The heady scent of herbs

Fills your nostrils to the brim.

Content to sit and lounge

With a dash of cinnamon.

From across the way you smell it

The sweet aroma of baking pies

The crisp warmth from the buns

And the tarts stuffed with berries inside.

Arscot is always standing there

Wiping the flour from his hands.

Adding sugar here and there

The baked goods are never bland.

I work my way through the trees

Push passed the brambles and the leaves.

Sit myself and look around

At a city well at ease.