Sarah St Vincent Welch #111 Porphyria's song

this last time I will

let him brush my hair

take out each pin

lay them in a row

he will cross himself

draw the strands through

his hands will thread and

twist them with a tie he

will smile into my mirror

at himself

this last time I will

say no more this dream

of me of us, he is wrong

(though kind and gentle

to me) cannot hear my song

claps it to another beat

kisses my neck and paces

shush shushing my refrain –

too high too unrestrained

this last time I will

cover my shoulder as he dares

to bare it tell him of the words

I have learnt, their sound

their shape, traced by my fire,

I no longer care to only listen

but must sing and read, plait

my braids, tie them up my way,

love a man who hears my voice

or a sister who will listen

to the stories I can make,

join in

this last time I will

not cry as he begs, resolved,

I’ve seen his harm, (not for me

his quiet beloved), did not believe

violence of the careful widower

until his servant limped my way,

bruises flowering on her arm,

rent across her face. 

I’ve sensed this storm

the swollen stream, his rapids,

I, a coracle in a still pool,

will lift my vessel to my back

walk upstream, away to sing

this last time I will

bide the rhythm of his passion

indiscretion my discretion

must tell him so, so we can pass

in streets and drawing rooms

let him nearer so to walk away.

I have a strength; my song,

can hold him with a stare

prick his pain (it will wane)
this last time 

in response to Robert Browning's Porphyria's Lover