The Visitor

In a deep wood cottage

I had fashioned with my hands,

I sat in Winter, by a barren hearth of ash.

I‘d turned my back on Love in all Her dotage.

She’d not come to celebrate my birth,

Nor after had She sought to sing my worth.

One night came a knocking

At my long shut door

Terror froze me, in my humble chair.

I was safe by bar and hinge and locking.

Echoing in my aching bones

That knocking rang in urgent tones.

I rose silent with the dawn

Peering out into the light

Seeing nought but dainty steps

That marred the path and made it worn.

Pretty feet had passed that evening last.

From Love herself, my door’d stayed fast.

I sank into my chair and wept ice tears

That burnt my face with rage.

She’d come too late for me to trust.

Yet I despaired now She’d been near.

I longed for Her embrace;

To know Her touch and see Her face.

At night I sat defeated just the same,

Expecting Death to take me in his time.

The knock that rapped was not a heavy hand.

I turned the lock and open wide it came.

Quiet and tall She stood with grace,

A question lit Her gentle face.

The door ajar, I took my chair.

She sat upon my hearth of stone.

I tight jawed waited for her measure.

She sat still with wordless eyes, aware.

She met my awkward gaze but did not stir,

Seeing me, as I was eyeing Her.

She was older than I’d guess

And scarred and scraped and bent

She’d braved battles wide and far

Her gown was not a gown, but simple dress.

Her face was lined, her hands the same,

I knew that She was Love without a name.

She took me in with curious eyes

And I could see, She saw me whole.

She gazed long, at parts I would most hide,

But not with judgement, much to my surprise.

Her mouth relaxed and smiled bright

And in my hearth the fire came alight.

c. niki pidd Feb 2011