First frost leaves the ground gleaming like crystal. Men abandon their boats to ropes and monkey-locks, leave the wharf for The Row’s taverns.
Violins sing of warmth in bottled peaches. Soak cookie in it, and poorbread’s fit to eat. Summer’s grievance lingers, but against weather and hunger, common poverty prevails. ‘Tis a new moon, unmoneyed men say.
Problematic, Balhir thinks, hunched in his chair. Pendant’s swung back. His snakes turned tail down their holes, drew ice sheets overhead. Nothing happens when nothing happens.
So something must happen. Their lordships agree. To the letter, even: tough winter seeding demands a pitchfork…
Prompt: bottle, wharf, violin, moon, monkey, fork, hole, lock, sheet, pendant, crystal, cookie, letter, money, tail, chair, bread, seed, peach