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Hanging by a Thread: acceptance & processing



It's been a time like no other. But actually that is the point isn't it? .. There is no time like any other, no breath is the same as the one before, nor the one which follows, and yet ... there is pattern, there is rhythm, there is life .... and of course there is death.

Several years ago I wrote a poem called 'Ariadne - part one' which described an immortal love. At the time, I had no idea what part 2 or 3 or ... would be. Part two may be the recognition of an unconditional love (the acceptance), whilst part three, might be the heart of it (still to be processed ?..)


Ariadne - part one


Trapped in life's lonely lair,

I helped him to find his way.

Mapped his escape with my thread.


Let him tug on my heart string

By offering to weave my life with his.

But when Theseus sailed and cut me adrift

I had no line strong enough to hold him.


The fabric of my life already pulled and frayed,

Now unravels as I watch him leave.


Part Two:


When my father died I did watch as he left. I thought that my instinct would be to hold on tight, waiting for the tension, and the inevitable snap, but it never came. There was no end. So smooth and strong was the splice that no threads were left hanging, and what little did become unraveled, has now been rewound onto the spool and the weaving can continue.


Part Three:


The Shroud of Motherhood

Blood red flows in a luminescent sac still

running in rivulets through faded silk.

Old body catches stains - a perfumed whiteness

hangs by a noose of thread.



Thank you for your ongoing support. x x x

Copyright © 2022 Helen Birmingham, All rights reserved.



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