I'll have to make it up
too long ago to remember
have to re-member it now.
She was loved by all the villagers
dressed impeccably
flawless skin
generous to a fault
always asking after the health of their children
their old folk.
Providing extras for table at village fetes
a loving mother and wife.
Perfect.
And yet there was something.
Her daily ride took her over brook and stile
that day though wind whipped bramble
surprised her at the turn
off she fell and lying there feeling pain
seeing blood in her mind's eye
understood things differently.
She did not lose the sight in her eye
but despite the efforts of the surgeon
bore on her cheek the scar of entanglement
for all to see.
From that day the villagers loved her the more
blest her and made her their own.
Perhaps perfection is hard for others to bear
and leading with our wound as bad.
How shall we find the good path at the crossroads?
What ancient voices wisdom guide our step?
Who is to know and how discern
voices that ghostly whisper
Come, follow me.
