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.

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