in the fleece of that story I could have wrapped my life
even for centuries the story of the Wild Swans. of Elise
the princess and her strange destiny, outcast with her brothers
and her brothers turned into swans.
no longer they wrote upon slates of crystal
in flourishing handwriting
with ink of gold
but bought and sold by a sorceress lost the earth
condemned to fly forever till the bells of Christendom
rang out.
until Elise in a dream sought how to save them
and it was revealed to her: you shall be dumb and appear
dimwitted though you shine inside with a thousand suns
and silent you shall weave with nettles shirts for your brothers
pale as linen, gleaming shedding the blood of your lily hands
invisibbly upon the woven goods
and if you speak a word, they never shall be free.
then on the brink of sundown came her brothers and in a net
of pure sapphire rose above the clouds high over the sea illimitable
and carried her and carried her in such a folkloric dream
and then they drew nigh and turned back into men
for a little space and sister and brothers sang hymns upon
the last rock in the sea necessary for them while the waves
crashed around them.
then she awoke
but waking was grieving
grieving and weaving
till they were free
I will do this I said night and day
I will weave poems from nettles
and say little else
and I am not myself
one day they will be freed
we will sing above the noise of the sea
free from the sorrowful kingdoms.
mary angela douglas 26 june 2023
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