The Palm Reader

For Magpie Tales.

The Palm Reader

I crept in showing sunken palms, chasms of

no confidence, a failing in my hands

for all to see, a map of lines I had  

worn lifelong and an eager, far

too trusting, sympathetic, ailing heart.
She swept in on an air of frankincense

and cedar, her aura rainbowed, sparkling

silver and gypsy gold with a tourmaline

ring hung on red- ribboned silk, for she dowsed,

read leaves,clouds, water and a crystal ball.
She saw weird shapes in dripping, melting wax,
all yielded secrets to her as she scryed.
She said I had a Water hand, (intuitive,

compassionate but gullible and too

unworldly for this tainted planet Earth).
A heart line deeply curvy (I did like

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, true, sensitive).
When I reached home elated, I created
a bouquet for her of words, as we poets love to do

for when we’d bidden our farewells I’d seen

deep into her psychic eyes and had no

doubt that I  had left with her the knowledge
of my very secret ‘poet’s life’ of dreams.

Cait O’Connor