Through a low winding passage way,
Under beam after beam
you enter a round abode, mud-warm red walls
with books, shelves, herbs
a smell of a wood burning stove, sage lit
with thick white oily smoke flowing upwards.
Stood near the centre, he takes your hand, holds it,
checks your pulse
with his soft white hands, a bit cold with age
he peeks out at the sky,
listening to your breathing
the dilation of your pupils
he smiles carefree
turns to the table, a smooth oak slice
he writes a few things downs
and cross references them in books as he
jestures you to sit
sits into his own chair
and starts talking.
A shark’s tooth carved of buffalo bone
lay on the table …
Reminding you of something.