Knitting Cobblers For A Pagan Giant

It is springtime in Abstercot.

Wraiths from the churchyard chuckle and sob like talent show victors, idly raking their glass-pebble eiderdowns, as I sit under my garden knitting cobblers for Betch Johnnyman, the pagan giant.

I glance up from my woolly travails and notice heavenly compost gliding earthward in a graceful tea-shop scone pile formation. Down, down plummets the rank, celestial humus, smothering the yellow chicken larvae as they plunge into the pond’s core for fungum dribs.

Shadows stir in the hedgerows, oblivious to the luke radiance of a brand new sky. They tunnel and frolic, umbras akimbo as, without their tangled domain, the lumpen diorama of Abstercot’s pastoral surround becomes whiskered in summer verdigris.

Yes. It is springtime in Abstercot.