Sonnet CCLXVI

My life’s a yellow yarn, but not the kind that lies –
the kind that spins, from forth my hands, to sombre death.
Entwining me, enveloping, constricting breath,
my life is not a yarn perhaps – a noose, at times –
then other times it seems unravelling and bright,
the backwards handiwork of grannies put to bed
with thread, awakening then to see it gone and dead
and life destroyed, and never waking from its time.
Who knows just where the scissors chomp? Not I nor you,
but shrewd Atropos knows! She rests her shears and brews
a cup of tea. And all the while, searching here,
we wonder if the end is near or if it’s not,
and as we think, immortal Fates imbibe and plot
- and spin – while here we are, rope’s end and all with fear.