Secrets are the only real magic, anymore. The only, lonely, things worth keeping. What one knows that nobody else does. What one sees as the rest blink their blind eyes behind pigeon glasses. Gaps in the clouds, cracks in the pavement, pauses in a song where the Dust falls through. I am the miser of secrets. I scramble about, clutching at wisps of smoke which curl lazily between my fingers before I stuff them in black velvet bags and lock them all up in a crocodile skin trunk. Peeling telegraphs, cross stitch hearts, books in ancient greek with hemlock seeds pressed between the pages. Ebenezer never knew that all the gold in Threadneedle street is nothing to silver secrets.
16 x
Dear N.W.
You will be pleased to hear that there are still a family of rabbits in her garden, they are living beneath the roots of an old tree which has grown so as to bend the garden gate. The wysteria keeps the bees company and of course I am sitting on your bench as I write this. You may not think it your bench, for you were never here yourself, but I assure you there are memories trapped in the woodgrain. I could not find the mouse palace, but there was of course the doll’s house and the tiny puddings. You would have loved this house dear N. I can’t really be sure but I think that is why she chose it. I imagine she buried the ring in the garden here, in a secret spot. I hope you have found her now, because the fire burns so merrily in the grate.
With fondness,
S.
47 x
