The fork was simple and well made, the blackening speaking of family and all those loving times eating together.
That fork was fashioned in the metal works of our town; it carries our signature forging for those interested to see.
The fork was older than the grandfather who held it; it was made to last, that's for sure.
The fork bore the imprint of the dog-rose, that wild bloom Eleanor loved so much.
The fork was made for baby hands, yet was as efficient at picking up the generous vegetable chunks as any other.
The fork had been fashioned in the times of vanity, when classic beauty had taken second place to garish opulence.
Those long and elegant prongs sank into the sweetest of sweet potato.
Delilah observed the fork in her hand, the ceramic handle bringing a welcome coolness after the heat of the afternoon. It was fashioned by a poetic artisan for sure, the simple cream stem had become a welcome canvas for their floral dreams.