Woven In

i.
Once my head was off
a new house was needed,
as though the stones had blood
so soaked into their porous,
gritty hearts that no water
could wash them clean.

The pond fills slowly;
it rains so rarely. The weed
waits, with the one shark-eyed
pike in the shallows. Men
build slowly, stone by stone,
until the roof shines in its

dull, red brilliance;
fakey turrets crowing in
fat glory over the dry moat.
They are a bold bunch.
The wainscotting is shined
to a rich red sheen.

ii.
In another country women stitch,
between sharp white wings,
at raw canvas; threads coloured
with saffron, spinach, beetles’ blood;
shape face after face.
I get myself in there, somehow,

with some  sleight of hand.
They said I was a witch.
At night I step down, taking with me
my newly stitched head that is wiser
than my old one. Corporeally,
I walk their halls, feet ringing.

Melissa Collin is originally from Manchester and lives on the North Norfolk coast. She studied Cultural Studies at NUCA and has worked in the book trade and as an editor. Her poems have appeared in various anthologies and journals. Twitter ID @melissacollin seaislighterthanthesky.blogspot.co.uk