Friday, 8 April 2016

Your thread: A poetry post

The Fates or Moirai have been on my mind today, after I heard about the death of a friend yesterday. My friend was old, and had had a good life, and those are both good things. But I will miss her, and the world is a little poorer without her, and so to The Fates.

I like to have a picture, and sadly I don't have one of the Fates, so here's one of a rook's parliament. That is the term that has been agreed, taking into account the superior knowledge of my friend's Richard and Lynn.
The Fates were three sister deities in Greek Mythology - their parentage depends on who you ask, and no-one thought to look for birth certificates, so let us move on from that. These three sisters (I do like writing about three women - see this poem too) were incarnations of destiny and life.

Clotho spun the thread of life, her sister Lachesis would then draw lots to determine the length (and I like to think they did a bit more than that), and Atropos - 'the inevitable' (which I'm taking as a suphero name btw) chose the manner of death by cutting the thread with her shears.

I was trying to write a poem, I like to write sturctured poems with rhyming. I'm a rules person and it makes me happy, but I couldn't get one to work, nothing would fit. So I wrote this instead. It might be a poem. I don't know what it is. It's in memory of Rose.

Your thread

Long and longer still has Clotho spun your yarn of life. 
Lachesis chose the rich colours for your brilliant tapestry, 
embroidered with tales, and interwoven with others'. 
You were well loved. Your life has been well crafted.

But now Atropos stands with shears in hand. 
The yarn is diminishing in quality.
It will run out.

So Clotho spins her thread with careful fingers, 
making it fine, finer still, 
and Lachesis treats it with gentle delicacy.
Looping lace on the layers of your life.

Atropos sets down the shears and takes the delicate thread
of your life left in her fingers, aching like yours.
'Fine work' she says, and she pulls the thread taut, testing it.
Her sisters pause in their labour, their breath bated.

The thread holds.
Atropos smiles.
Her sisters sigh, 
resume their work.

They do not know that Atropos tugs again,
not until the tapestry falls.

The thread lies broken.

© Cara L McKee 8/4/16

Prose for Thought