Combing
Being locked in a lonely tower does not leave one
with much to do in the day’s slow passing
except grow the hair long and spend hours brushing it
through.
Likewise on a storm bashed rock in the midst of the sea-
there is nothing to occupy but the churning fathoms
and the hope of a ship to distract from its course
other than to enjoy the tangle of locks on the skin.
At some point the comb, whether of shell or bone
reaches midway in the flow of the stroke,
below - the scrambled tresses, and above- the silken skein,
when it must be decided to go on or not
to let down the weft with the weave in place
or allow winds to dictate the shape.
Remember there are handholds in the knots
that can be wound about one’s hands or another’s
when handholds may be needed to climb,
but with beauty that is tended and smoothed and preened
all one can do is stand back and admire the golden gleam.
That is gorgeous and brilliant! And I am gritting my teeth, because I was contemplating writing a Rapunzel poem, but this oblique, delicate treatment with its wealth of descriptive detail makes anything else superfluous.
ReplyDeleteLove the interweaving of stories here.
ReplyDeletewonderful, Emma!
ReplyDeleteWhat a good poem.
ReplyDeleteChrned scrambled knotted smooth - I'll be carrying this textured piece with me all day (and beyond!). I wanted to say something about Irish linen but I can only come up with cliches :)
ReplyDeletewow - so much careful detail, so skilfully woven.
ReplyDeletethe churn of images in it... fantastic
ReplyDeleteThank you so much for all your lovely comments!
ReplyDelete