Twelve Week Scan

eveningviewfromwindowKL

New life began

 then. When

 I took flight

 from whence

 I’d lived and loved

 on flatter, cooler, calmer

 soil. Where bright colours

 speckle squares of earth

 in spring.

 

I look down from

 here, where

 pillows of palms

 froth and bubble

 like barbed wire,

 steel grey in the mist

 of monsoon air.

 

 Beyond the green

 where, eventide,

 ribbons of bats

 stream in

 on happy nightshift,

 I wait

 Rapunzel-like

 by day,

 just here, looking

 down and out

 to dream of spires

 and promised lands.

 

 Two floors below –

 a window –

 and within

 a naked pine,

 shivers, lonesome

 without its festive garb.

 At dusk

 no light illuminates

 its pending glory.

 Forlorn,

 like me,

 but though the ground beneath

 will soon look like a barber’s floor,

 I know

 this too shall pass

 and I shall cut my hair.

 


8 thoughts on “Twelve Week Scan

  1. Dearest Jo, perhaps this is the greatest time in your life to find yourself without others -to be alone and not be loney, to find the inner strength that you have but perhaps sometimes fight against – we are all sole warriors, regardless of the warriors surrounding us and sharing our soul journey. We will all have to fight our last battle dance alone. It is in the deepest soil that we start digging to find the hidden soil of our souls xxxxalways in my heart Niamh

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  2. That reference to cutting hair reminded me of how I chopped all my long curls off when I came to Canada. New country, new life, new ‘do’! It was so short it didn’t move when I shook my head. Bad decision – I’ve spent the last three and a half years growing it all back. So, my accumulated expat knowledge always begins with “Don’t make any rash decisions about hair length/colour” (Did I mention I also dyed it orange?)
    Beautiful poem Jo. Stay strong.

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    1. ha ha. The poetic ‘hair cut’ idea infers only that I am not going to remain Rapunzel, even though she did get rescued by a good-looking knight! I last cut my hair short in Norway in 1996 when I could not ask the hairdresser anything in Norwegian, so simply made a cutting motion with my fingers and got a short, boring bob. Me too, never again!

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