Bernadette Hall

ICONOCLAST

Very tricksy are the Irish
aunts, adroit at half truths,

needing a tragedy for definition,
No one spins it quite as they,

gold from straw.   Sometimes
they look at me, unsure, as if

I might say.   And Eleanor jumped
from a bridge which alters most

things.   Sharp as tin, the women
slipstitch outward signs to

fine linen; shuffle inner grace;
thumb rainbeads on fibreoptic

trees; rub crumbs for sparrows.
Uncomforted, in baleen clouds

I see the subtle shades of avalanches.
I wave her name like a white flag.

Not knowing the god language,
I learn these things off

by my heart.   Pulling down icons,
find I love them as they fall.  

From HEARTWOOD (Caxton Press, 1989)
© Bernadette Hall
 

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Last updated 24 March, 2005