Fortuna.

She arrived at night
breathed out by fading starlight
emerging through the mist.

Where she came from no one knew,
her horse, old and sway-backed,
drew her creaking home
between two shafts of light.

Her dark eyes glowed like dying coals,
crow black hair gleamed like oil
spilling braided ebony down her back.

She brought with her an ancient art
some would call a game,
a small table and two old chairs
and, in case of rain, her gaudy tent.

Intrigued, a starving lad draws near,
smelling her rabbit stew.
She offers a bowl and her hand,
draws him into the folds of her tent.
He is no fool but, as she bends over his palm
tracing lines he can not see,
he hears truths he has kept to himself.
all his young life.

Survivor poetry - poet's choice - trigger 15 #3