Syrian women

We meet on the path from sea to sky
both clothed in shades of nimble violets
that clamber rocks, or bluebells nodding
to the clouds, no voice to ring our words.

Morning sunshine cloaks my hair and face
but hers is hazed, as if a sea fret
stumbles in, steals features away.
She may be my grandmother, daughter

a thread of women through years gone by
and those to come. My heart beats in my hand,
fast as the mountain hare; her arms bar
her chest, eyes cast down like stones.

This silken yarn unwinds and twines us close
as hands that gathered berries to dye the cloth.
Our eyes, damson black, watch history
bleed into the warp and weft of time.