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...?!
As you may know, I’m fond of a mini-book, mini poetry books in particular, and I came across these recently among my memorabilia. They’re two little leathe...