straying from the path
work by kath jones

the white dress

#1
in the woods there is a folly endless steps and parapets, ornate gates. she has an invitation to dance bare-foot-fall on leaf.

at first she had been reluctant to wear the dress full of suggestion and boned stain bodice. the way the women behind the counter wished her luck.

the dress lived on a wooden hanger for days. come saturday she knew it would be her who put it on.

the skirt is layered cotton voile voile ox-red silk voile voile voile delicate as spider lace.

a woman with black hair and sharp breath laced tight the bodice. your carriage awaits she said.

nobody had an umbrella, the dress exposed to fine rain soaking. sheltering beneath the archway, she ate a cheese sandwich.

no one had ever applied lipstick to her before. at the last second, she took off her coat and put on a mask.

the gloves were crochet cherry blossom quite possibly her grandmothers. she found them at the bottom of an old leather suitcase.

the path was cold mulched leaves, bark and stone. look at her muddy feet said the girl with curly hair.

the dress turned her body contortionist. she can see the goosebumps of an uncomfortable audience.

he didn’t know where to look. behind her mask the woman giggled and rearranged her skirts.

afterwards, they drank tea. every party should have tea, the kind with tiny cups and saucers, milk jug, teapot and sugar bowl spread out fancy on a lacy cloth.

#2
feeling naked without her rings she tied a bandage across her breasts before climbing into the dress again. in no uncertain terms could her rings be borrowed.

the dress is an illusion.

should she be there should she have entered is anybody home? there are faces without eyes pinned to walls.

the dress cannot help but be looked at.

a feather silhouette stone smooth, a cup of thin bone china. everything the fool heart white dress touches at a certain angle.

down slams the glove again and again and again. the elder hand is impenetrable wearing a thimble.

a large iron key hangs from black ribbon around her neck. let down your golden hair stop pulling those ridiculously exaggerated faces she cries.

#3
the woman told her off for doing that thing with her mouth. it’s not at all flattering the angle of you bent over like that she said.

this was her day at the centre in a magical dress. she had to climb, act natural, throw the bouquet.

the dress wore her.

#4
black house, empty windows, boarded door; blue the sky above sycamore above brambles catching full skirt. blood berries stain her ankles her fingertips holding a shadow up broken-glass-jigsaw-steps. should she go in?

nobody is home yet every surface a collection of preserved curiosities tale of demise. far is the ocean.

crooked bone fingers cast frothy dress cold foot over heart to ash-black tassels and ivy bouquet.

who is the skin shedder? who hung the porcelain doll? who left all the sticks? who made the colour echo?

what they were wearing found draped on undergrowth waiting for a body to confirm suggestion.

who did you see on the bridge? who are the grotto dwellers? who carved those letters into bark? who cultivated the orchard?

remember: nothing is real proof. despite finding those delicate shoes or were they slippers, choking hot she tore off the gloves undone at the seams speckles of emerald sunlight.

scrambling to solitary peril she threw the dress to witness her abandoned ankles tremble above silent rock shedding fine particles into gorge covered in scratches.

the daughter of black water mountain

long ago in a faraway place where swans never flew there lived a woman in a cave a deep vaulted cave sunlight entered through fissures to cast shadows of bony fingers and gargantuan spiders. in the cave lived a woman who spent her time drinking wine from golden goblets. she wore a black dress as black as crow feather kept her auburn hair tied up high with pins she’d fashioned from sticks. in the middle of the high vaulted cave was a pool the pool deep black as the satin of the woman’s dress.

long ago in a faraway place spiders weaved their lace for there was nothing else to do except make dresses for the daughter of black water the daughter of black water at the bottom of a pool in a high vaulted cave. the daughter of black water who couldn’t spin a thing into gold for the woman in crow black dress who threw her in the water once golden now a still and black beady eye the eye of swans who never flew by the entrance to a high vaulted cave where only spiders and a woman lived separate yet co-existing how the passing of time had made them familiar so sometimes at night the spiders would leave off their spinning and climb into the hands of the woman.

long ago in a faraway place a child was born. she had jet black curls and dark brown eyes and her lips were so plump her parents feared she would be carried away from them for even at so tender an age her beauty was apparent and the word had spread across many lands bringing men on horses to ask for her hand. but the parents of the child couldn’t bear to let her go so they put her in a tower without any windows and bricked up the door so no man could get in. only the crows could see her for it was they who brought the girl food and the rings of many suitors she would never meet.

long ago in a faraway place the swans didn’t fly because someone a woman in crow black dress clipped their wings while they were sleeping then tethered them together by their long necks with golden thread so they could never leave but forever stand guard outside her cave and if anyone should happen to pass by they’d spit and peck and charge the unfortunate soul who would either be lucky enough to escape never to return or else become a feast for the angry birds.

long ago in a faraway place the child grew with only the crows for company but the crows became jealous of her beauty and in the deep of night at her coming of age they carried her in their beaks by the curls of her jet black hair to a faraway place where swans never flew and there was a golden pool in the middle of a high vaulted cave.

long ago in a faraway place where the only view was of mountains there was a cave a high vaulted cave and in the middle of the cave was a pool a pool of liquid gold. in this place this faraway place swans wings swished as they settled outside this place a high vaulted cave with a golden pool from which they drank their stiff necks holding goblet heads their golden black beaks sipping golden water.

one day long ago in a faraway place a woman as dark as crow feather came. the swans knew nothing of her arrival and after drinking golden water from a pool in the middle of a high vaulted cave they fell asleep just outside the entrance.

long ago in a faraway place a yellow moon shone down on a woman in crow black dress as she clipped the wings of thirteen swans before slipping nooses of golden thread about their elegantly curved necks tethering them to a nearby rock at the mouth of a high vaulted cave.

long ago in a faraway place in the deep of night a horde of crows carried in their beaks a young woman by the curls of her jet black hair to a cave a high vaulted cave with a pool of golden water in the middle. a flock of swans guarding the entrance bugled the new arrival and made a great show of their clipped wings before a woman in crow black dress appeared at the mouth of the cave and hissed at them.

long ago in a faraway place a woman in crow black dress thanked the crows for bringing her a daughter to tend the swans that spat and pecked and charged at unwanted visitors. but like the crows the woman in crow black dress grew jealous of the young woman’s beauty and in her fury commanded the daughter to spin golden thread from water of the golden pool. but try as she might the daughter couldn’t spin at all.

long ago in a faraway place spiders weaved lace dresses for the daughter of black water the daughter of black water at the bottom of a pool in a high vaulted cave.

long ago in a faraway place there lies the body of a daughter at the bottom of a deep pool of black water in the middle of a high vaulted cave where a woman in crow black dress threw her held her under till she had no breath till the water lost its goldness to the curls of her jet black hair and the swans turned mute.

long ago in a faraway place there is a pool a pool of still black water in the middle of a high vaulted cave. by the side of the pool sits a woman in crow black dress drowning her sorrow red from golden goblets with only spiders and the shadows of bony fingers for company. the mute swans are long dead but not a living soul ventures near the mouth of the high vaulted cave where the sighs of the daughter of black water can often be heard.

a family of small ankles

#1
the spider
grown fatter by the days trapped
aphids and mondays big beetle kill
she determined to bind
claimed a
huge uneven triangle
from washing line to window

by early evening
the wind began her descent
down valley
she worked quickly
to repair her laddered web
secure the greenshield
for later consumption

#2
nearing midnight
she
sits up close statuesque
all the while
thinking about him
there then not
she
hurries away
from touch

vanishing into sofa shadow

#3
after the winds
she tightrope'd
along the washing line
throwing a yarn
to take up residence
on the summer house window
like a kids drawing

#4
a week later she returned
a corner of the kitchen window
her threads screening

a small yellow plane circling overhead
the engine cutting
children screaming
last minute ascent

#5
the mistress came out of hiding
not seen for several weeks
her short visit cause of much delight

since her absence
she’d grown fatter still
her slender legs
diligently repairing threads

#6
eye spy something beginning with s
from her hiding place beneath speakers
the mistress gargantuan
scurrying full circle across the floorboards

freezing by telephone wires
can you see her?
the clue is on the windowpane
tip toe-ing like a ghost
to beneath chair
her next appearance
in a few minutes
over arm
scuttling cushions

would she climb in ears?

#7
to be heard
underneath the bed
her ankles
tickling carpet
to walk over his face
at dawn

#8
sharp intake
she scales the curtain wall
back legs dragging

meanwhile

her companion
frozen on floorboards
on closer inspection
is a limb short
the missing leg
trapped by rough plasterwork
in the kitchen
above the cooker

#9
with a feeling
worse
than waiting
along came spider
sat down beside her
purple-black-blue tongue

tell her your true name

#10
she is here again
back to entrapment
the mask
on hearth rug
takes off quick
the slightest breath
make a wish
invent another game
those wasted nights
alone

#11
preparing party food
the larger of the two
wearing black shoes
practices tap
from corner to corner
the radio is playing
clunky piano
three acts of paradise bells
tolling into the night

#12
none of eight legs symmetrical
applauded
not the most light-footed
of landings
taxi-ing the closest ever

#13
due to freak occurrence
a tiny handful of folk
swallow sixteen spiders a year
in their sleep

why dogs bark

deep in the woods
faces
swaying in dappled light
swaying
who will cut them down?
make them breathe

light falls through eyes
how the trees imprison them
cut out their tongues
slender branches
snapping beneath red slippers

no sacrificial altar
amongst the rocks

dresses hung root and branch
sheltering from fine rain
a trail of ivy

beneath the monkey tree
trunk of fifty rings

dresses need bodies
to make the fabric dance

there was evidence of a fire
ash-black circle
stray charcoal sticks

a white dress lay across tree stump
cut off her head someone cried
the sound of laughter from a balcony

would she be buried in that dress?
would the lichen carpet her?
flies confetti the glade
her red heart spiked on hawthorn
her message smudged with rain

crimson eyes
throw the bouquet
what was her mouth doing?
would she walk down steps like that?

she waves goodbye

straying in the land of hills

in the land of hills, there is a small white caravan with nets at the windows and a shield bearing a lion on the door. inside, a man sells tea from china mugs that don’t match. in the land of hills, grass is whip-coarse. leave your flip-flops at home; wear sturdy boots and long trousers to prevent lashed raw ankles. in the land of hills, earth fractures into veins. the reservoir is dry. there is a wreath on the fence post. ant people follow a footpath where thistles stand tall and bees zigzag carelessly. the peaks are in haze/

that day, nothing went quite to plan. the girl with curly hair wouldn’t have it tied back out her eyes. arriving late she brought milk and a fan. thunder rumbled clouds of grey silk into a torrential downpour. no one had come dressed for wet walking so they sheltered in the bulls head, the clientele a gathering of elderly gentlemen with rotund bellies on varying lengths of legs chuntering about beer and the weather; the women drinking orange juice with bits in wondering where the fairytale strayed them. all at once lightening forked through the windows. the lights went out. there’s been a power cut right down the lane said the landlord shutting the kitchen for health and safety reasons.

in the village, the baker was closed but the co-op was open blowing cold air by the cheese and bread aisles. across the road, a chance encounter, sunshine pouring theatrically through the window of a florists selling expensive pot plants and bouquets wrapped in orange tissue paper, glossy black paper bags with plaited rope handles/

where to go? take the up hill road. stone terraces cutting to open field and cloud scattering towards tiny town nestled in valley. a roadside bench became the ideal place to picnic. one of the women commando; a woman and her dog walking the traveller’s way with rucksack and binoculars. i’ve seen you with your notebooks are you into the flora and fauna said the guy on the enfield. it was an unusual shade of camouflage green, the generous black leather seat mounted on springs. that’s a lovely bike she said what make is it? a sixties from fifties design manufactured in india ex army top speed of seventy five depending on the road, he said/

fragile cheeks

nothing she saw was proof of anything.
remember that.
carry on collecting shells.
sand in shoes is better than drowning.
look at the picture.
see what you want.
a perfect day doesn’t always have a perfect ending.
music is only part of the trick.
the lullaby will bite if you don’t have a blanket
make it go away mummy
make it go away mummy.
the red boat is drifting.
we all know what’s going to happen next.
she’s out there somewhere and can’t get back.
who will throw the rope?
who will stop her thinking?
                              in the garden
                              her elbows atop the fence,
                              eyes downcast.
                              he moves stealthily;
                              she cannot be sure where he’ll next appear,
                              tucks her hair behind ears and pulls up
                              brown shoulders.
                              the door is open.
                              she goes inside.
                              he comes out holding his nose,
                              props himself against the doorframe and
                              looks up.
                              his hands imagine the invisible box surrounding him.
                              the sky is overcast.
a blue balloon
sails beyond
still trees.
the leggy pinks and velvet purple petunias
wave,
passing figures examine the sky.
to find the plough is to find the way
home.
a house on a hill.
the road is cut open.
leave him thinks a passer-by.
                              soon
                              the children
                              will be home,
                              tired from running.
                              jewels sparkle.
                              left arm raised,
                              she takes off her sunglasses.
                              smoke billows
                              from the doorway.
                              leaning on the fence she drinks gold
                              from cut plastic goblet.
                              the children call,
                              their voices carried nail biting downhill.
                              the landscape cannot conceal
                              a well trodden path