advice

'stick and stones from strangers
and words from those near.'
the gnarled hand holds mine
and it rains tears on the ground.

'you'll be rich, my dear
dressed in silver and gold', she says
'then why the tears, old witch'
i want to ask, and she guesses,
'because you'll be poor of love.'

i follow her green-eyed black cat
down the crooked rainy road
into a fire-warmed tavern
where after seven glasses of red
and complete confession
the host takes a gleaming knife
over a green porcelain dish
and cuts my fingertip.
with a lock of my hair
dipped in this warm red,
i sign away my possessions
and choose love instead.

twenty years later,
wounded by love's infidelities,
i'm trying to find the same tavern.
pausing for rest under a timeless tree,
picking out the thorns,
when a faint meow draws my attention
away from the arrow in my back
(shot by a dear friend).

'cat! you still alive?'
'no stupid woman, that was mum',
cat says, agrees to take me back.
my feet hurt but i make it there,
to find the man in the tavern.
not a silver hair on his head,
not a wrinkle on his face,
he ignores my surprise,
says he knows why i was there
and offers me the same red to drink.

before i say anything, he says
'no money to buy salve, eh?
people don't think before signing
their souls away.' i beg, i plead,
but there is no other way.

seeing how hurt i was, he relents
'i'll give you pretence,' he says
'it comes free to those hurt in love
if you practice it every day
the pain will soon be gone.'

three long years have gone
since that advice on an autumn afternoon.
and just when you think,
it has worked very well,
along comes a rainy day song,
or a stray smell of you,
and i'm crying again.