The Lady of Shallott

Winter days are dim here.
When my alarm sounds
in the morning, I flail in disbelief--
it must have been set
for half-past three-- some
ungodly hour, so dark--

and when I finally
sit up, the Lady of Shalott is looking
at me, a half-finished Waterhouse print,
bought as a student in Wales.

Her face accuses, rolled balls
of blurry yarn unwinding
from her hands.
The loom's frozen in shock, a
hazy Camelot gleams in the dark scene
through the window--
that damned, tempting window!

I want to collapse
back onto the pillow, into the plumy
dreams I just left, pull the blankets
over my head and hide
from the morning, as if from a monster
and I were five.

I can feel the Lady's gaze
burning at me.
"Do you see what happens?"
she asks, her face the only thing
in focus, finished.

What happens when we avoid
our work-- distraction, distruction.
Her sky dark, the lights of the castle
are glimmering, or maybe a set of
shining armor.

"Was it worth it, though? Would
you do it again?" I say, drawn
to the blurry suggestion of Camelot.

"Yes, I would," she says.
"Yes."

Critiques

Name: Cassie

Email: clexline@frontiernet.net

Insight:

Loved your poem, I just got caught up in the whole Lady of Shallott tradegy and I'm glade I found your site.