Paths in worn planks, ritual circles,
the subconscious shuffling of my shoes
— table, cupboard, hearth, table —
Now jars of lye, tallow,
a pail of clear water,
a melting pot and moulds.
Paths that take me from this kitchen,
away from hamstrung thoughts,
out a sagging door in to the yard,
past a weary pump, drowsy barn;
to where you wait in the south field,
to your last day of land and peace.
But that path I cannot bare today,
on just one of a million other days,
among a million bars of tallow scrub;
I should run to your side, breathless,
leaving the mundane in its remains,
my hand in yours, forever folded.
Paths that made these pale bars,
a few to pack with blanket, hard-tack,
water sack, salted pork for endless marches.
My only offering, lonely as a letter;
may it serve you once and suddenly,
a trade for beans or dreams of home.
Dedicated to S Lynn Knight. It seems I can’t read submission guidelines so missed this week’s prompt in WK. Will get it right next time.