The thumb-nail of a balmy moon
Means that he will pass by soon.
She’s kindled a candle set on the sill
To show him she is waiting still,
As he climbs towards the evening star;
So near, and yet, so far.
The loamy dusk soaks up the twi-
Light sandalwood-scented sunset sky,
As he wends his way up Blossom Hill,
He sees the light upon the sill
Through the aromatic gloam,
And wonders, ‘Is she home?’.
In inky shadows of the eaves,
Below the low-slung Tamarind leaves,
Concealed in her aphotic dim,
Tormented by the sight of him,
He doesn’t turn towards her door,
She dies a little more.
Bitter drowns sweet eventually –
She’ll watch him for eternity.
Since forty years their fate was cast
And bore the consequence of the past,
Surrendered to the village norms
Their dreams up to the storms.
The scars are gone, but broken dreams
Seldom heal, and go unseen,
Through aeons on a tide of tears,
Perpetual time and un-lived years,
Knowing that she’ll wait for him:
The patience of a pilgrim.
© Alex Barton 2013