Song of the Bessoms
Crafty gatherings among the tallest branches
wild untamed growth belonging to and loved by none.
Harboring Nature’s felons in leafy ‘tanglements;
only Grandma Crone would dare where others shun.
Grandma’s want, alone, could match that unholy will
and train such natural wickedness to service;
to sweeping floors and brushing dust from off the sills.
Whilst in the corner, quietly making visitors nervous.
Mother’s bessom of more handsome stuff is made.
And finely wrought with plaited yellow bindings round.
Hardwood handle turned and good oak straw that’s never strayed.
For sacred service only, above the door is proudly bound.
Yet, methinks,
Whether wildly wicked or handsomely staid,
by action our mundane lives are sacred made.
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