Ghana / PoeTori

Journeying home and beyond …

She clasps her mud-soiled fingers

in each other until they became

like the black cocoons of the caterpillars

in the umbrella trees before

the Harmattan winds

 

The rain will come and wash

Her fingers clean

And she can get to

Weaving again

 

She will journey to Bonwire,

Where the tapestry of her grandmother’s blood

Will meet the fine lines of the red thread in her kente

 

Her eyes will glisten with the

Reflection of the aureate Sun

She is certain she will smile

Once more

In the Manhyia palace or

Jubilee Terrace

And perhaps the golden threads of

Her fabric will,

Like Okomfo Anokye’s stool,

Carry the soul of her people.

 

But the rainy season has come

And the Harmattan rain has gone

And her parched fingers

Still adorned in

the mud they have wallowed in

fling open

 

She opens her eyes to see

her green larva woven with

the threads of time

flutter into a butterfly.

No more shades of green

But a rainbow butterfly

 

In it she sees

The exquisiteness of more than

The red, gold, green

Threads in her woven kente

Or the black mud on her fingers

 

In her butterfly she sees

Dreams soar on the back of the wind, all

Because she decided

To let her butterfly soar

And touch the infinite horizon.

 

 

 

Mehitabel Tori Markwei

(c) PoeTori Inc. 2012

All rights reserved.

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