T h e S e w i n g R o o m . T h e d a u g h t e r s a r e
s u r r o u n d e d b y o p e n b o x e s a n d c r a t e s .
T h e w i n d o w s a r e o p e n
a n d t h e w i n d ’ s
p i c k e d u p
What will we do with it then?
The dozens of boxes labelled Little Girls’ for a start?
You’ve heard her: don’t dare sell an inch for nothing to idiots
who’ll use woolblends for blankets and crushed silk for sheets
St Vinnie’s won’t do then
nor will ads in The Post
definitely not Trade Me
or friends who’ll frown and say: more trouble than worth, sad to say
We could keep it all
But where would we put it?
And I don’t sew
and I don’t have the time
What if we didn’t take it from her?
What do you mean?
I mean it’s all hers after all
But can she do anything with it now?
Maybe it could do something for her: whisk her away, lead her off
Yes, now you’re getting it
She did love the sea
(although she never learnt to swim)
and she loved ships
she went on that cruise around the world
and she made us drink holy water
and sprinkled it into every room
We need to make a sail
Yes. A mighty patchwork
I’ve got the tartan over here, the red cord is next to you
and there’s this box: Special Occasions
and when we’re done we’ll fly it from the mast up on the roof
This’ll be big
It’ll be big enough to set the house adrift
turn the lawn blue
draw southerly sea-winds
flap seagulls out her way
Can you see her sailing up Akatea Street? Down The Parade?
Looks like she is heading towards The Strait
the Atlantic oceans
She’s caught the wind, she’s sailing alongside Poseidon’s very arm
Give me your binoculars: she’s floating
on the white organza
way above the sea spray.
Vana Manasiadis, from Ithaca Island Bay Leaves: A Mythistorima.
This poem is for Lela, for Matt, for Wiremu and for Iris, sailing above the sea spray.
I haven't blogged for ages. I hope this will be the beginning of a bit more.