Poems (Forrest)/The taffetas cloak

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THE TAFFETAS CLOAK
A taffetas cloak on an old peg hangs, Cowslip-coloured as dairy cream,Yet it seems to me as a body swinging To and fro from an oaken beam;Such sombre secrets a touch awokeIn the dust that came from a woman's cloak.
A finger of light has found the attic; It moves, to point like a seeking swordWhere a rose of silk at the throat is fastened, Looped across with a satin cord,And passes down to a clasp of pasteThat played the shield to a rounded waist.
There's a tiny stain on one shimmering shoulder, Brown as the leaf of a summer fled—Was it ever vivid, and wet, and spreading, Red on the cloak as a bloom is red?Was it ruddy wine when the Mad Hours ride,Or the point of a rapier turned aside?
In the taffetas cloak a spider crouches: I saw the twitch of his hairy legs,And he seemed as the soul of a long-dead woman That out of the grave-clothes creeps, and begsThat the taffetas cloak be left to hideThe price she paid for her laughing pride!
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I can see from the open attic window A new green leaf on a tall tree's crest,And the mottled wings of a bird, adventuring Into sun from a fresh-built nest,While the loosened dust from each silken foldDissolves in blue like a mist of gold.
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