Here's a mystery quote from one of my favourite poets:
"...She sat silent in her father's house,
learning Swahili from a book with pages fragile as onion skins
and making her trousseau in scandalous coral-coloured silk...
...The day we buried her the sky drooped
with a cloud, low and soft as a goose belly.
In each clod of earth that fell on her coffin
I could hear the popping stab
of a needle pushing into silk
held taut between determined fingers."
I'll be back later on this week to reveal their identity. In the meantime, any guesses...?!
DISPLACED They called her aloof, impractical, clumsy, plain. It was, they
say, difficult for her not to fall in love.In spite, that is, of the first
coughs...
Dear Matthew
ReplyDeleteI would guess that it's a female poet who has lost a loved relative. Am I close?
Best wishes from Simon R. Gladdish
See my next post...;-)
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