I wasn’t always honest. 
It was all about perspective, 

the silent space of muted tongue,
a ‘yes’ to presumption.
How one sees Rapunzel,

Protected, or snared?


I was like an old worn shoe, how

it curves into the shape of feet, 
I into your desperation.

I’d watched my father, learned

his skill: natural rock, piled in layers,

roughened slab, each piece unique,

each answering to the master’s eye,

making stone walls a craft.


I didn’t crochet like my mother, but knew 
how to catch your hook, thread deceptions 
into lace, stitch, mend, plait fabrications, 
seam my shawl.


Birds who fly must return to earth,

in the garden, a wood pigeon, 
industrious, makes her nest.
Tolerance knows, 
we all evolve, from some one family,

and you were part of mine.


By Attracta Fahy.

For Simple Practice Consultation