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Elizabeth Birchall

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Tapestry

Elsewhere
and other times
there are patterns.

Here now
only randomness, strong dyes in
 a pile of jumbled threads –
cold wood pressing
on my bones, the pink and white flux
of blood under my thumbnail as my pen
moves, others pressing ink onto
other pages, the scent of lilies
filling the room. Awarenesses.

And recollections.
These too are present strands –
yesterday’s lean dog and friends
walking the beach in shifting pairs
sharing wefts of memory and current delight
as the tide ran in again, between fractured aeons
of orange, pink and purple rock.
The tapestry adds another inch.

Again the hard bench
brings further memories –
my mother’s adamantine resolve
frost-patterned window panes
rationed coal and a small hearth
five pairs of feet competing for the fender
the comfort of bread and dripping.

Here, beyond this window, mist duvets rise
from folds of pastel hills, airing as day ripens.
Clouds lift and horizons widen, colours sharpen.
Motifs will recur and new images arise
along the unwoven warp.
Nowness also has a future tense.

 

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