Called, nay, cajoled to ponder
And craft a fable, she was flattered
By the kind knight’s small request;
Yet inwardly she cringed,
For she’d never practiced
That particular literary form.
The knight lived in a faraway land.
It was blessed fate that they’d met
At all—discreetly, via letter
Carried miles and months by a serf
Ridden wild-haired and hungry
As hoary wolf he insisted was
Following close behind.
Poor waif was of such meager
Means that in gratitude she sat
Him at her table, and heaped his
Dish three times with hearty stew,
Plates of warm Irish soda bread.
While he ate wordlessly, she
Reread the letter.
It seemed the knight was a
Most remote admirer—having
Stumbled on her published writings.
He closed his note which begged
A fable so prettily, by inviting her
Into mutual correspondence…
Difficult as it would be, vast
Distance spilling out between them
Like spools of tapestry floss.
In all her years, the color of widowed
Pewter blight, she’d not known this
New tripping of her heart’s beats…
Nor the flicker-dancing prismatic
Hues that suddenly painted her
Rooms in astonished delight.
The End (or is it the Beginning…)
©Pax & Co., 2018. All rights reserved.
FREE IMAGE SOURCE–Pixabay.com