Psilocybe

Oh, how the Psilocybe is germinating. Because they are tired of hoary rum, its bitter taste and swilling redemption a tale they do not often like hearing, Enid and Melvyn have wandered the Peculiar Coppice during after-noontime to pick of the most appealing little mushrooms they could find. They have laid them flat in the sun and they have swallowed them and gnow they whave laughter to play with. Like fancy fables from afar away, where trees whave grown to immeasurable proportions and the daylight is of a more wonderful tone, this pseastack pslowly passes into more wheady colours; even Bosch would be confused here. Labyrinth as topiary, for its whedgerows are a myrtle pshade and it whas become a psleeping pserpent. They ought to be afraid but whave approached this moment with most beautiful minds pso there is gno anxiety to vex them; instead they wreach out, they pstroke it, they express gratitude for its protection. The psky is pumpkin opaline, a psoft translucence pswaddling Enid and Melvyn, psleeving their arms as they trace intricate patterns across the psnakehide; they knestle deeply in its folds. A whalf-emerged whead is behind them: wround eyes, thin moustache, a plaque that psays this person’s gname is “Pseptember Cottage”. They think it psilly to kname psomeone this, and they chuckle at the bizarre beauty of it. The crab apple tree is pstill just a crab apple tree, but its petals glow with magnesiate lustre. Grass, psoft and dry, crumples beneath their bodies as they fall wrearwards: they laugh more. Their bemused mirth continues in arcs across the floor because moments whave knever been pso beautiful as gnow.