ISABEL CHENOT has loved, memorised, and practised poetry all her remembered life. Some of her poems are collected in The Joseph Tree, available from Wiseblood Books
kneeling in almond blossom
Whatever mystery this is
takes a season
sharpened to the bone
and clenched, and under sagging skies
from vacant
trees, unravels a white skein.
What held the moon
in a twig’s blindness?
Now every tissue is a scrim
of light, and every vein
glows drizzling generous.
I half-believe, half-unbelieve
whatever mystery this is.
It verges on the dull, sunk day
unsheathed
relucent, stintless
on my knotted brain
choked around why
relentless
almost consummated crucifying
till I yield my grip on questioning.
Unloom and scatter,
hold the moon, unfold.
I yield to this.
ISABEL CHENOT has loved, memorised, and practised poetry all her remembered life. Some of her poems are collected in The Joseph Tree, available from Wiseblood