A Gardener's Gift

- jan-u-wine


'Tis a fair way

(such a very fair way)
'twixt here and the bright
fields of home.

I have carried it
all that long way,

carried it,
secret,
plain as a wish
hidden
against my heart.

And now I draw it out.

It speaks to me,
somehow,

it recalls to me the things I've lost

and those I never shall.

And for one moment,
here in this dark land,

you are curious,

curious,

as ever you were,
and wonder what
might be contained
within such a homely box.

Homely,
Master.

Yes, it is all of that.

It speaks of Home,
and the simple things
(and folk)
that lie an age and more
behind.

My fingers touch the rough carve
of the lid
(picked out by myself one lazy summer's eve
not so long ago),

prize the brass hasp open.

And Home spills out,
shining sweet and fine
as diamonds
upon black rock.

Sea-crystal.

We call it such at home,
these strange pebbles
that of Uinen's distilled tears are made.

Other tears there are,
spilling silent in this dread place.

Tears of remembrance.

And I close your hand about the plain
solid comfort of the box.

Little enough it is,
little enough to remind us of sweet ale
and bitter leaf,

 of Spring-green mornings,
and bonfire Harvest nights…

little enough,

this crystalline bit of home,
a gardener's gift of
salt.