Molly Glover on Bragg's Island
Your hair, so carefully combed and severe
in its familiar cut, is shale grey now;
and when you lift your cup from its saucer,
your fingers, ever so slightly, tremble.
And in a drawer is a crystal shard,
picked up that fearful day you ran out of
words to say, took up a sturdy broom,
went through the house, shattered all the windows.
Some days it feels like your whole life is glass.
But if by chance the sunlight prisms in,
lose yourself in your springtime, run again
the island path to the top of the hill.
There, pull the ribbon from your hair, at last,
and let it flow out: dark, long, beautiful.