Girl With a Blue Vase

Now, on looking back,
I remember
clearly, how she used
to carry water
from the courtyard,
to her mother’s house
and then back again ..
More than two miles
each way
and every day, in that
tall, salt glazed,
lapis blue, earthenware
pitcher of hers ..
The same one that she
carried home
from the market during
the infamous drought
of twenty sixteen  ..
I also recall, how she
carried it high,
and so finely balanced
upon the pale shelf,
of her naked left shoulder ..
And of how
the sunlight then caught
and played
directly upon the silver
buckles of her
worn leather sandals ..
Indeed those
she would only ever wear
when weaving
her way home through
the scorching
red sand and occasional
contrasting
patches, of respite cool,
crisp, fallen leaves ..
She might find on her
way back again ..
Yes those, which were
once maybe,
old windblown robins
nests stolen ..
From off the branches
of long deceased trees ..
But of course,
they felt, so much kinder
to the feet
of lone travellers than that
way back then ..
Yet were still perfectly
mismatched
and as much out of place
as the girl with her old
blue vase
did sometimes seem ..
And though sad,
I confess, I now see her
far less and then only her
silhouette ..
But hear this, I know
and only too well ..
There is an old blue vase
and a young girl,
still out there somewhere
just waiting to be found ..