“You’re one of them, aren’t you? From… up there. What are you doing here? Walking the dirt amongst the likes of us?”
The stranger frowned, and brought his arms around again to hug his chest, as if trying to stay warm, though the day was warm enough already. “Why do you say that?”
“Your eyes,” the woodcutter said. “Like two bits of sky. Not like we have now, neither. The part of the sky that’s well beyond the clouds – where the dark creeps in, and the stars reach out.”
The stranger smiled, a weak, pale smile, but there seemed to be real amusement in it. “And they said there were no poets down here.”
The woodcutter grunted. “There ain’t. I won’t ask your name – and I won’t give you mine – but I’ll leave my axe by the wall there, so long as you don’t go blazing up again. I got work to do, and falling asleep ain’t on my agenda just now.”
The stranger nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Right then.” The woodcutter brushed his hands together, to loose the last of the sawdust from his palms. “Feel up to a cuppa tea?”
(10:40 p.m., 16,748 words / Words written today: 3,430)
