For shamaneyes - My muse

[savvyliterate]

He sits in the shade, leaning back against the bark of an English oak that's just sprouted with the leaves of the new year. His hair, the color of fine, aged brandy with hints of gold shot through it, is tied back - a wayward lock escaping its bounds and framing his face. He smiles, his teeth as white as the starched cravat around his neck. His eyes, the color of the grass that surrounds him, are full of humor and intelligence. Come, he tells me, patting the space beside him. I see a leather journal and a fountain pen in his hands, a spare set waiting beside him for me. I take my place beside him and drink in the subtle scents of sandalwood and man. He talks to me about all sorts of things, sating my thirst for knowledge and intelligent conversation. It is then that I can open my notebook and I am able to write.