On a Grey Thread/The Hole in My Curtain

by Elsa Gidlow

The Hole in My Curtain

It is because of the hole in my curtain.

I have stared through the torn space
Into Life's tortured face
As she leaned low and treadled her loom,
Watching, watching for the inevitable doom.
And I have seen the haggard shadows flit
Over the tapestries she wove, bit by bit,
Feverishly, her lips shrieking gay lies;
And always the tired song in her endless eyes.
I have watched the Form with his weary
   cynical face,
His pale smile, his definite, measured pace,
Gliding forward and gliding back like a
   thing condemned
And calmly slitting Life's woven cloths
   from end to end.

And they have wondered that I should laugh!
Marvelled at the potent wines I quaff.
Marvelled that I should dance on their God's
   dried flesh,
Shape a lute from a bone of His; weave a mesh
Of mirthless melody; that I should find Sin fair,
Circle her body and sleep in her odorous hair.
They have marvelled that I should mock the day,
Throw my veil over the sun and smile at Fate's
   old play;
Lead my soul down the ribald, flowered path.
They have marvelled . . . they have wondered
   that I should laugh.

I have looked too long through the hole
   in my curtain.

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