Beyond the ivy-clung forest stones
her hermit’s hearth does glow
with the scent of wild herbs
and other hedgerow matter.
‘Tis bottling night again,
the ladle is overemployed,
with the rhythm of eye measurements,
dipping and diving with the flow.
Simmering time’s for ladder knotting,
whittling worms out of the soul.
Busy yet still slipping backwards,
onion rolling in your wake,
time and distance are comfort’s friends
but seldom get down to the root.
Rubbing fern juice into her hair
with nimble fingers quick and true.
Frowning, she bobs and weaves
all ’round the magnetic target
which she cannot view remove.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.