The Life of Imogen Crest

Incense mystified the enigmatic
halls where I once roamed,
a novice, dressed in
robes.

By book, my scroll,
my pen and dark ink,
my wayward hound and cat,
my pillow of spun silk in red,
the fragrant
rose of lavender.

I am a frieze on a
plastered wall,
still wandering
in my halls and alleys,
cloistered there,
to surmise, not judge.

I am neither you
nor I, cast of
many colours
and skeins.
You might see me in
a tapestry of days?

I saw the rose beginning to
bloom,
I saw the stone on the
tomb,
I saw my knight laid
still,
Rusty hill.

Tonight I think
to spin straw
into gold,
and drop my silken
locks,
on some
poor merchant's sill.

Yours, only for now,
in good faith,
- Imogen Crest.
copyright Monika Roleff 2005.