the salt is on the briar rose,
the fog is in the fir trees.
the fog is in the fir trees.
Sometimes Caspian took the beauty of his home for granted. True, the sea was his business but also his joy; few days passed where he didn’t find himself stopping for at least a moment to observe the roll and crash of the waves against the cliffside, or watch the clouds pile like mountains on the horizon. Sunsets (and sunrises, though he rarely was up early enough to enjoy them) were always spectacular, and there was little better than watching a summer storm come sweeping on over the water and whip its surface to whitecaps.
But it has been the background to his entire life, and often Caspian has dreamt of what is beyond it (or, sometimes, below). He wants more than the life of scouring the shoreline for pretty shells and helping smugglers hide their goods. He wants fame, and adventure, and those things so often turn his thoughts beyond home.
Today he’s in one of those moods - at least until his meandering path leads him to a slender black mare, staring out at the water like she’d never seen it before. There is something in the awe of her expression that makes him look, too, before he glances back at her with a grin. “Not a bad view, eh?”
@
