GO, now.
Build your woodsman’s hut
deep in the forest of star-stealing trees
or by the sun-wrinkled sea.
It matters not.
Live.
Make a garden filled with herbs magical
and all manner of things good to eat.
Plump tomatoes heralding summer’s heat.
Robust carrots finding their feet
in the moist, dark soil.
Delicate beans fingering soft green toward the sun.
Pumpkins fit for any princess to ride home.
Measure the days out in teacups filled with sunshine sipped
leaning on your spade
beneath the apple tree
heavy with fruit as red as heart’s blood (how else could they be?)
And look to the path that winds through the dunes
or bends in the tunnel of trees.
And on terror filled nights when the wind whips the waves
to towering creamy peaks.
Or the forest cracks and beats trunk against trunk
to splinter the weak...
summon a maelstrom.
Cook with sheer passion, wild abandon
be sure to always leave your windows open.
Then, frozen and wet, seeing your light
draw the lonely and lost travellers to your door
nostrils filled with the promise of warmth
in bellies cramping and cold.
When they knock, gently lead them in
and pass out your bowls of steaming soup
piled high with love and hope.
In the morning when the storm has passed
the sky is blue and the sun is bright,
point them to the path they lost in the night
where it dips and bends away to the east.
Do this.
Be patient.
Wait.
And one night she will come.
Stumbling on small white feet
frozen and bloodied from the stony path.
Perhaps she lost her sealskin, stolen
by a heartless man.
Perhaps she followed a trail of breadcrumbs
too far to find her way home.
Wrap her in your warmest coat and seat her by the fire.
Rub her frozen fingers between your warm and
work-roughed hands.
Ladle all your longing into a bowl and watch her sip.
Say nothing, for nothing need be said.
Watch her as you would a wild and beautful thing you cannot own.
A white swan.
A woodland doe.
When her fingertips warm between yours
her cheeks flush pink
and her eyelids dip,
Carry her gently to your single bed
wrap her warm like a child, kiss her forehead.
And spend the night yourself in the chair by the fire.
In the dawn when her eyelids flutter wide
bring her tea made with herbs
sweet honey from your hives.
When she stands to leave, give her your coat.
Point to the path she lost in the night.
Smile.
And let her go.
Yet watch, hope,
for a moment, wait.
Let her see
you fed her from your brimming soul.
And I promise you
she will not reach the gate,
but turn around,
turn back to take your hand.
What happens next I cannot tell
it is for you to complete the spell.
But I fancy if I passed your window some days hence
on business I know not what,
I might see you standing by the wooden bench
arms around her.
Floured hands on floured hands
kneading the new day’s bread.
And as she leans back against you
you might bend your head
to kiss the long white curve of her neck.
And on wild nights
still cook with wild abandon, but
a small meal just for two.
Close the windows fast.
Let the weary travellers pass.
You cannot feed them all.
Promise me,
when she comes
you will send a letter with your news?
I will take it down to the sea,
wash it clean with salt-sea tears.
And when the page is bleached white and dry
I’ll write the things I should have said
and all the things I should have done,
cut a long lock of my raven hair
squeeze a drop of red blood from my thumb.
And binding three colours together, sealed with a kiss
I’ll bury it beneath an apricot tree.
That something sweet and good might grow
from what was almost, but could never be
between Thee and me.
© Christina Cairns 2010
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