Sunday, October 15, 2017

The braid

The ringmaster takes his whip
The horserider, his rein
The soldier, his rifle
The teacher, his cane
The mother, her daughter's hair.

Oiled and ruffled,
Tangled and mangled,
The mother in hindsight
Knows she has to combat- to fight
Alas! No comb in sight.
Mother now wrought with worry;
'Twas infantry with no inventory

The kid brother scoots around
His eyes constantly on the prowl
For the wicked comb is at large
And was he not the one in charge?
The mother hastens the kid
And the detective makes his bid-
Lunges under the sofa with aplomb
And lo! Quite an entrance for a comb!

The vision of her mother, now armed
Makes Miriam increasingly alarmed.
Mother says "Hush! it's alright"
But each tug worsens her plight
As mother deftly fashions a plait
From twig like strands of a sparrow's nest,
Putting all her nifty skills to test.

Miriam prays for her travail to end
There are endless classes left to attend.
The blue ribbon comes to her aid.
Miriam lauds the perfection made
With one last look at her intricate braid.