Riddle’s Close

By Joyce Matthews

I am the place within nobody’s aim, except today when they wander in, all different yet somehow the same.

A quiet space at the end of a dark gloomy lane, a gate half closed, neither inviting nor advertising, nor calling your name.

Hidden in time waiting for your world weary frame, for the unveiling, the descaling, the stepping back to the plain.

And as the bells chime and the hands time exclaim, they proceed, beauty held in their gaze, those five with no name.

Patience was nourished with strawberries sweet, a place to pause, to take stock and to rest more than weary feet

Kindness mapped the route from a stark wooden seat, a look back, to look forward and listen to her own steady heartbeat

Goodness admired a magnificent feat, a kaleidoscope of growth, flourishing longevity, and wondered about becoming replete

Gentleness discovered an obvious treat, lighten up, with child’s eyes, bias, judgement and personal history uncomplete.

Joy was the first who dared push at the gate, and let castle, clouds, rooftops release adulthood weight

Looked at the birds over grey grubby slate, ones that rise in fresh air, practised flight gifting such a free state

She’s closing the Riddle in a carved ancient gate, not the wizard of West Bow, but Richard Geddes left my bait

For those who visited in autumn, last Wednesday, late, “By leaves we live” he said and left a trail they chose as their fate.