By Linda Burnett
Pillars of birch cast
vaulting spears into a witchy sky.
Gothic cloisters greet even the most pagan feet.
Birdsong registers, then dampens to the swish of grasses dressed
with dew, crushed splay as strides plunge further into caches of the deep,
uncharted for the common folk. Hunting alone I forage gifts that nature will allow
to those who know her ways. Slight stumble, but the jags of his betrayal spur me on.
My trug is striped in tones from white to grey, laid out as offerings. Sifting through
the bounty gleaned, each with a use and virtue of its own, I brush the velvet
of the skin, graving a nail along the gills to make my mark:
this one for him. I swiftly wipe them with a cloth,
prepare the smoothest velouté
with care, reserving one
to sauté for the top.
The table's set with
ivy, mocking,
by the bowl.
Unwittingly,
he drinks it
with a nod,
the garnish
at the end.
He’ll hardly
feel its work
until the dawn,
and then it's done
Autumn brings solace with its armoury, natural remedy without blame.
The forest lends her gift to free our wedlock from its hasp and end my pain.