.
Sometimes it opens
just a crack,
that heavy door –
and she will see
his lamp aflame
and though she’s not
the only one
to bring his tray,
his cup of ale,
she always comes
to mind the steel
in his eyes,
those eyes
that recognize the fool,
that see the masks
of dark agenda
in the winks of falsity.
.
She always comes
that he may rest awhile.
.
She lets him count
the gathers
and the pleating
in her bodice,
and she lets him
fold her hair
across his face
to hide his smile.
And she will stay
for just awhile
until the moon has risen
and he calls out
for the guard
to secret her away.
.
.
© 2012, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright
.
(a Maeberie series poem, revised)
Seasonings 