Seven Swans from the North

The Pilgrim Woman sat by the fire with a single white feather in her hand. Her listeners came and sat inside the Lost Chapel. The last of the sunset striped their faces through the lancet windows. She smoothed the long vanes till the waterproof barbs locked together, and no more callers swished through the dunes. Then she twirled the feather in her fingers and began . . . Continue reading