Edwytha’s Plait: Eighth Tattersby

Posted by ractrose on August 13, 2017 in Art, Poems

Edwytha's Plait: eighth Tattersby

 

 

The Folly

Tattersby

 


 

Edwytha’s Plait

 

Terror, when it comes, warms the night

Fallen close and hard of breath

like a parachute’s muffling silk and chill

Night

Borne opaque the face of pity

Mirrored in the watcher’s eye

The plain below

Sinking to the cataract

Emerging hidden under rock

Mimicking Edwytha’s plait

The waters keen

And he has never known this name

 

For since the Celtic daughter’s hour

They have not called it so

They throng

Crania lift hollow sockets, smile

Sadly aware

They are death’s heads void of nuance

Smile of all the world’s news

A rational man, de Clieux tells his companion

Would call this fog

Have you really left your bed to join me?

Miss Harvey says, for this time

 


Tattersby
Edwytha's Plait: eighth Tattersby

Continued on Tattersby page:
Not Wanted Here: ninth Tattersby (excerpt)

 

 

 

 

 

(copyright 2017 Stephanie Foster)

 

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