Going Inland

for Joy McCall

who lives 

on your inner island

she asks—

dipping my silent oars

I glide toward the answer

a sorrel mare

at the water’s edge

drinking deeply

dripping moonlight

we find the inland path

in a hut

fragrant with dried thyme

the old crone

at the hearthstone

feeds a flame with her words

at sunup

the reedy sound 

of piping

from a fold in the hills

where no path leads

clasping 

the hand of a blind harper,

I follow 

the song of the brook,

the whisper of trees

~Skylark 4:2, Winter 2016