So Begins the Braiding
From its beginnings near Withyam Friary,
the muddy river Frome slowly
winds its way towards the sea.
Mixing and churning the field run off,
the river bed receives the clay deposits.
We are all ephemeral beings without
guarantee how long our life will be.
Three score years and ten is not a promise.
Our bags must be packed,
ready to leave at any moment.
An illness. A bug bite. A fall.
So begins the braiding.
Gathered from the river,
the clay is pressed and turned.
The formless coiled into shape,
a spiral, symbol of life.
Now cracked.
A mother's lament displayed.
Poem: Mike Grenville
Artist: Fi Underhill
My poem based on this piece exhibited at Black Swan Arts by Fi Underhill about the death of a child entitled "So Begins the Braiding".