Mornings
Voice of Hannah: handmaiden to Salome`
For most of my life I've served her.
She fills my daily existence
mornings, I prepare her bath
steeped with measures of rose-water.
For pure pleasure I float tiny boats
small candles of incense
their flames bobbing
like fire-flies on water.
On the shelves lining the walls
are bowls of burning cedar-wood
and cinnamon and bright blue jars -
precious balsams, amber, sweet-flag
and chinaberry from Judea.
We are delirious
beside ourselves laughing
losing our senses
in the heady fragrances
musky wood saps, aromatic resins
absolute essence of rose and lotus.
What good fortune
from the gracious gods
to be transcending
sated in these sacred odours.
After drying she calls for unguents
I bring the balms in alabaster boxes
bee's wax, sandalwood, ointments
to soothe her tender skin.
Her pitch-dark hair
coiled high upon her head
uncurls in the moist air
slowly unfurls like a sleepy snake
falling into strands for my deft fingers
to braid and weave with beads
of turquoise and jasper.
Morning sunshine pours in shafts
through wooden shutters
on the cool mosaic floor.
Soon I come with large platters -
fruit and bread, sweet-meats and juice.
Today, she eats so lightly
picks at it like a fussy bird
"no appetite Hannah, perhaps later".
At noon, from the deepest well I draw
cool water to bathe her face and neck
then light the jasmine
it's sweet curling smoke stilling
bringing her peace of mind.
Early Evening
Early evening
I set before her palettes of colour
paints, powder - means of enticement -
henna, carmine, and khol
to shade dramatise her eyes.
I spread in dance order
the adornments
her ruby chaplet
ear pendants of crystal
a necklet of chains
her breast adornment of lapis lazuli
a girdle embroidered with her birthstones
bracelets for wrists and ankles
her breechcloth
and hanging from the wall
like gossamer webs
seven diaphanous veils
for the dance this night.
before the dance
I bring small savoury pleasures
fine olives, garlic, spiced meat
and a vessel of tawny wine.
Distant music seeps into our senses
musicians flex fingers warm instruments -
symbols, pipes, drums - faint strains
swelling to an overture
from the great hall
the audience awaits
Pamela Sidney 2003
