Penelope Poem by Gert Strydom

She slowly braid the burial shroud,
while a hand strokes loving
on the material.

He loves me,
he loves me not,
and her thoughts carry their own rhythm.

I know him well,
I do not
know him anymore,
weaves with time
it’s own woof in her heart.

Still she remains true
and her fidelity stays intact,
although for years
he does not return from the war.

When Odysseus on a day
returns disguised as a beggar
and takes the big bow,
and string it, and shoots accurately
and her eyes still do not recognize him;
only a intimate secret
reveals him to her.