There is a claret light, a flood
of chubby, meat-dark clouds, but you, intent,
at first are in your old scent-satchel mood.
Your hands are in the gliding mode,
balletic, suppliant, sisterly, spin
out grace in a web that love early
crumbled to a fragrance, tannin-dry,
but that dances now steadily, succulent,
in revels, reverberant where within
your threads and labyrinth you hold
confined to the drunken god.
Source: Maiden, J 1979, The Border Loss, Angus and Robertson, Australia.