His gate swung
its creaking hinges a melody to the girl over the way
and watching from a distance
she wished
Tiptoeing over glades
she ran swiftly to her love
blades of grass
under her soft shoes
falling like lovers in raptures
In a room in his cottage
the man with tanned hands
etched,
sketched her name
using old tools handed down
Ita, Ita he mouthed as he brushed dust
away
away from her blessed name
holding warm metal
he branded her name into his heart
Stopping at his faded door
Ita took a special breath
the breath of one in so much love
it could be her last
and she wouldn't mind
to die in love is to die alive...
Angela Norris
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