The Torn Veil
The
Torn Veil: Zaks
In a small out-house, down a set of slippery sand
stone steps, black
ripples eddy around the great body of water
The sheds and buildings shown little love
in this dank backwater, the river by the building
gulps sullenly behind a veil
of choke weeds, convolvulus and nightshade, deep
under the structure, the eternally turning Other.
In a corner stands a girl, one and another.
All Celtic curiosity concertinaed up, stamped down and
bound in black.
Mourning satin for an Aunt who left her unloved and
deep
Distrust as she was disposed of like a Moses bundle in
the water.
Hard work and solitude have marked her young life and
kept her thoughts behind a veil.
But here she hopes. This wild place, these waters, may
turn from trap, into love.
She is not alone, there is a man. A brooding, troubled
soul.
The wheel turns and the spinner spins her story of
another.
Wife, the ghost bride, in a torn veil.
The shuttle flies and the pattern grows on the loom
next to the pit of black waters.
And the wheel, turning, turning as Arachne’s silence
is broken by the
clack, clack of the loom with secrets deep.
This man’s troubles run lay-line deep
Bound to a lost woman, she has forgotten love
Mis-remembered who she is,
She curses and plots to destroy the other
The one who has her tied by ectoplasmic strands to
this river bank, this edifice.
Her horizon of freedom is curtailed by this consuming other.
The circle of fire scintillates around his soul,
un-damped by water.
The wheel turns, and she feels her-self drop like a
stone into the water
Rent asunder and torn is the veil
Replayed conversations and images of the other
Flood back to her as she sinks deep
Under the water, caught in the wheel of love
The pressure, the asphyxiating cold as the world goes
Black.
Comments
Post a Comment