04-08-2016, 02:05 PM
The house of woman is old and weathered,
its wooden walls set on the edge of the sands
above a spill of bright yellow lupins.
A woman stands in the doorway, sweeping
the sand of forgetting away from her feet.
Behind her, swathes of violets, dark blue,
their soft tide of perfume washing the air.
A white blossom flares in a very small sunbeam,
chimes and curtains shake out on the wind
and hands swift as sparrows tear at the bark
for the crimson secret that keeps breasts pure
as burning snow. The ghost of a crescent moon
holds nothing between its horns but the path
to the house of woman.
after Robin Hyde
its wooden walls set on the edge of the sands
above a spill of bright yellow lupins.
A woman stands in the doorway, sweeping
the sand of forgetting away from her feet.
Behind her, swathes of violets, dark blue,
their soft tide of perfume washing the air.
A white blossom flares in a very small sunbeam,
chimes and curtains shake out on the wind
and hands swift as sparrows tear at the bark
for the crimson secret that keeps breasts pure
as burning snow. The ghost of a crescent moon
holds nothing between its horns but the path
to the house of woman.
after Robin Hyde