She crossed the footbridge, the bell
was ringing from the chapel, they were there
expecting her.  In she went,
inside, like breathing, her quest
for the kernel, the seed
that might burst and make a way
of release for her, escape  –
even if its hiding place was a shell,
even if it had to be secret
as the fragile yolk that held the giant’s life:

she plumbed the basement and searched inside the chimneys.

She laughed telling the story.
O, you’d do that, she said,
we couldn’t have a man inside the door.
The kitchen chimney
and I loved it,
well I remember
the old days, you’d be
black all over after it.

 

Image © Tjarko Busink

The Pigeon
Pure Gold