Mate-less

The other day, when my mallard had finished cleaning herself on the dry reeds at  the edge of the pond, she 

struck out across the grass to see what I was doing,

 stopped at my feet and looked up at me, so confident, so curious, maybe thinking my camera was food,

and then turned and waddled back to the pond when I offered her nothing,

passing her mate on the way who had followed behind her,

also curious  - and on patrol. Her shining green knight.

Lying on the massage couch

at the Hospice Care centre

where I'm having my complimentary reflexology 

treatment

I drift away

while her small soft fingers

rub fragrant oil

into the skin and soles  

of my feet.

They say all the organs and the bones of the body

are mapped in the feet

maybe 

the lungs are in the toes

the spine in the ankle

the bladder in the arch.

Maybe

 that's why

 my eyes are

leaking tears

when she massages 

circles into the

soft padded ball below

my big toe.

Maybe

 that's where 

the heart is.

Maybe 

that's why it hurts. 

Why it's hard

all day

 standing

and walking

on my

mate-less

shrouded

heart.