Here is another squib. This is supposed to be a description of a place that is good for writing. I’m working on a series of poems that are written in, and sometimes about, the Treehouse, so this fits. It puts the writer into the scene.
As soon as she stepped into the upstairs room of the cafe, her shoulders relaxed. It must have been the soft colours, cream and turquoise, or maybe it was the filtered light. She found a table and sat down, squiggling into the pillow on the seat. She’d already ordered her lapsang souchong from downstairs, they’d be bringing it up momentarily. She took out her notebook and opened it to the ribboned page. She exhaled slowly and gazed out the window. Birds. Soon the silence was broken by the sound of her pen scratching on the paper. Faeries, faeries riding on the backs of blackbirds. Now why had that popped into her mind? She carried on, making little sketches in the margins.