Sian Thomas

The Daughters of Minyas

Weave these threads like vines, my loves.
Our hands, our fingers are so small
we could be birds, squealing,
sweeping high above our work.
We're black against the evening,
here in this house of dusk.

Weave, my loves.
Weave vines and emerald ivy leaves.
Weave purple grapes.
Weave them almost black,
so fat, so succulent they stain our skin.

The moon is flying.
She seems to chase the sun to bed.
We too are tireless, telling stories.
We spy each tale, listen for its pulse
and swoop to grab it in our tiny mouths, our teeth.



This poem appears in Ovid's Echo.




This Well Holds a House


Wind the handle for the bucket that knocks at the side
dislodging moss and brick flakes.  See the steam rise
from the chimney.  See in the garden the ducks sploshing
for their sops; willows thriving in the mush; cool water
for washing and drinking, or warmed in the dark like a geyser.
See the beds and chairs and tables and windows, soft
as sponges.  See the laundry, never drying, where the web-footed
wrinkle-palmed husband and the web-footed, wrinkle-palmed
wife are wringing out their babies to hand them in the shade. 



This poem first appeared in an online suppliment to Agenda.




This House Runs Backwards

Listen to that irregular click, that out-breathing
unwinding wind, that widdershinning
teeth-catching snap.  Press your ear to the almost
inaudible tick.  Press your cheek to a cog.  Feel it dip
chilly as brass.  See windows flap open, hinges unscrew,
curtains dishevel their hems, floorboards flip dolls
into trunks with unlockable lids, and patches of sunlight
run down the walls.  See in the fridge the cheese
re-curdling; knives and forks in the slow-turning
kitchen whipping to the Aga to smelt.  And this sucking
thing at the letterbox is the past's mouth.  It comes
with a tongue to lick oil off the mechanism.



This poem first appeared in Agenda: Dwelling Places, Vol 45 No4/Vol 46 No 1.

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