The Palm Reading

I crept in with sunken palms
chasms of no confidence,
a fortune in my hands for all to see,
a map of lines which I had carried lifelong, hidden,
with an eager, sometimes far too trusting, sympathetic heart.

She swept in on an air of frankincense and cedar
under an aura of rainbows, all sparkled silver and old gold.
Her tourmaline ring hung on red- ribboned silk
for she dowsed and read the tea leaves,
clouds and water, mirrors and a crystal ball.
She even saw weird shapes in dripping, melting wax.
All yielded secrets to her as she scryed.

She said I had a Water hand,
(intuitive and compassionate,
artistic and emotional, but seriously gullible
and far too unworldly for this tainted planet Earth).
My heart line was deeply curvy
(I liked the sound of that)
but I was without any minor lines.
(Well none to speak of).
No crosses or triangles, no sign of little squares.
But then she found the writer’s fork, (quite rare)
which showed a poet's soul
(kind and true with sensitivity).

On my return home, still elated, I created in her name
a bouquet of words, as we poets often love to do.
She knew the lore of flowers, threw runes,
read faces and the Tarot,
always kept her Angel cards at hand.
And when we’d bidden our farewells
and I’d looked deep into her kindly eyes of green
I had no doubt that I  had left with her the secrets
of my very special ‘poet’s life’ of dreams.


Cait O’Connor 2010