hallaig
08-06-2011, 08:00 AM
The Maid
Lydia sits framed against the sun
a wide brimmed hat to shade her eyes.
Behind her the green autumn hills roll like waves
to a distance, the collision of land and cooling sea,
the busy hum and grasp of nations.
Here she is Queen of Cats and Lawns,
her fingers webbed in sugar
and the light through fairy wings is like stained glass.
Each day is dizzy and endless.
Yet her name is known:
they mutter it already, enter it in treaties,
and the corridors she must walk down
are built and scarved in shadow.
Even as she’s an angel, the child’s a ghost.
Should maybe say a wee bit about this. I wrote a series of poems about Scottish History and this one was inspired by the story of The Maid of Norway, the wee lass who became Queen of Scotland for a short time after the death of Alexander 111. Lydia is my own daughter.
Lydia sits framed against the sun
a wide brimmed hat to shade her eyes.
Behind her the green autumn hills roll like waves
to a distance, the collision of land and cooling sea,
the busy hum and grasp of nations.
Here she is Queen of Cats and Lawns,
her fingers webbed in sugar
and the light through fairy wings is like stained glass.
Each day is dizzy and endless.
Yet her name is known:
they mutter it already, enter it in treaties,
and the corridors she must walk down
are built and scarved in shadow.
Even as she’s an angel, the child’s a ghost.
Should maybe say a wee bit about this. I wrote a series of poems about Scottish History and this one was inspired by the story of The Maid of Norway, the wee lass who became Queen of Scotland for a short time after the death of Alexander 111. Lydia is my own daughter.