15 August 2010

Yarn Spinner, a poem by Pamela Mordecai

Inside she sits and spins, decanting gold
and silver from her wrists. Her fingers bleed.
Day and then night. Myriad windows perch
above her head brilliant birds. Through them
she cannot see the river pirouette
from a valley hung high, tumble, kneel deep
into a basin blue as chiming bells
set in obsidian rocks. Night and then day
but she cannot observe the stars, the sun.
She scoffs air, laps sweat off her chin. Straining
to listen finds she cannot hear even
the wind. The walls leach marrow from her bones.
The room adjusts around her shrinking frame
of mind. She teases out a winking thread...
[continue there...]

Pamela Mordecai

1 comment:

RSA Certificate said...

Lovely poem, it reminds me of that fairly tale where the princess has to spin yarn into gold. Good memories of childhood ;)

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