Knot

Hand-held,
Limp cloth swings in grey folds,
As thin as air.

No motion but wind-eddies
In a still room
Dust-motes shaken by the tiny hands of atoms
And the beat of human blood
Along thumb and finger.

To tie a knot
Brings purpose
And energy
Runs an end through a loop
Like a beginning trapped in process
Like termination turned back upon itself.

Tightening,
Small muscles flex,
Transform fabric into movement,
Make of gravity
And its perpetual falling to earth,
Curvature.

In one moment, listless,
In another, bound.
Like spiral time,
Space, light and shadow,
Combine and rebalance.

Knotted substance,
Brings all its attenuated,
Infinite threads to touch:
Twisted, one through another,
The sweep of the hand tying,
The warp and weft of fate.

© BH 2012

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Yet another response poem. This time it's for a painting by Alison Dunlop. She posted an image on facebook and I wrote this. Simple really. Sometimes the words just come out. Nice painting too, by the way.

The illustration is another of Alison's paintings on the same theme.