Trudging through the dusty fields
I come upon a house of brick
I hope no weapon the owner wields
When I ask him for a morsel quick

I knock, she comes, I am invited
Into the house for scones and tea
Surprised am I but well delighted
The woman is demure and lovely

I wipe from my boots the caked sands
With the towel she has provided
And too, a basin for face and hands
Funny, not once are my looks derided

A parlor opens to the hall; chandelier lit
Furnishings modest, yet immaculate
She leads me to a rosewood chair, I sit
Her hand extends to show the plate

She sits across and tells me her tale
The kettle's on the boil meanwhile
A widow she is; his heart did fail
I look down at an ornate Italian tile

She has a sense for people, so can tell
I mean her no harm or distress
Would that others could trust as well
Sure would change the world, I guess

We linger over the tea and scones
Discussing topics of many a persuasion
And then she plays piano in gentle tones
What a lovely unexpected occasion

At last I must bid her fond goodnight
I thank her for what her kindness yields
I leave; soon the house is out of sight
And I, trudging through the dusty fields