A Glean from the Balustrade

I stepped onto the damp flagstones of the canal footbridge, leaving the quiet house behind to take the noon air. Lodged between two rusted wrought-iron balusters, a hardy sprig of wild hawthorn caught my eye. Against the soot-darkened metal, its berries remained remarkably firm, their crimson skins unblemished by the river damp. Using the slender tip of my wand, I applied careful leverage to coax the woody stem free without crushing the fruit. Once dried with proper patience, such berries provide both a steadying brew and a rare, vivid splash of autumn color. I tucked the sprig securely into a linen square to carry back for Stellarus.