Spun from Straw
A family tree—turned spindrift—all spun from straw.
Mean ships. One pallet? One pall? Spun from straw.
Field after field, workers dream houses: kitchen,
bedroom, parlour off a long hall spun from straw.
A young man caught in a young woman’s gaze;
gold sun, warm barn, no firewall spun from straw.
Mixed marriage children round a hopeful table;
love wraps like a shawl spun from straw.
Names worn away, gold-lichened stones,
bones long-limbed or small spun from straw.
My watchmaker uncle angled time into gold
casings; fairytale wherewithal spun from straw.
Michele, gleaning in fields of data, finds a four
or five way meld, but nearly all, all spun from straw.
Michele Waering began thinking about the ghazal form through the poetry of Francis Brabazon and Hafiz. After further research led her to the work of Agha Shahid Ali, she thought she might try writing ghazals herself. She lives in Renfrewshire, Scotland. Her work has appeared most recently in The Interpreter's House.