Not with a bang but a whimper

Sylvia Plath

Scientist bakes sourdough bread with yeast derived from 4500 year old Egyptian pottery

is a sourdough boule

She set off into ever autumn,

A place not on a map,

Past the house with tall thin windows

set against the treeline.

Where pines reach high on the horizon,

And fences splinter slow,

Forgotten beside a glassy pond,

That sits forever still.

Where the last spider has abandoned,

it’s web to morning dew, And the hills no longer remember,

The earth when it was young,

Where she felt alone when wide awake,

in all the world at noon,

And where lowly-hanging branches drink,

from shining golden streams.

Where soft sunlight makes it’s bed among,

the foggy forest floor,

And a red moon greets night’s silent song,

In skies of muted blue.

Where dusk fires gently frame the sky,

And set the stars alight,

Where solitude tempers strong the soul,

And frost nips at her toes.

Where popping logs, scarves and warm cider,

are good companions all,

And the heavens whisper their stories,

To those with ears to hear.

How she would get there,

she couldn’t tell;

She didn’t know the way,

Yet, she only ever truly lived,