Her hands are freckled and tanned.
The first thing the reader of palms sees
when she turns them over
is that all the lines are broken or frayed,
and there, between 'head' and 'heart',
is the cross of the holywoman.

She is kneading clay for pots,
dough for chapattis, and although her body
seems weighted by many unseen
burdens, she is only bent, not broken.
Her hands are still confident and strong;
agile as otters, fluid as fish.

Somewhere there is a high plain
etched with her songlines and spent fires,
the rivers and tributaries
of her destiny's unravelling.
Though I know without looking
there is light enough in her eyes
to guide us both,
I will not meet them,
will never go
where she has been.

© Deb Westbury