The Thread

Something is very gently,
invisibly, silently,
pulling at me-a thread
or net of threads
finer than cobweb and as
elastic. I haven't tried
the strength of it. No barbed hook
pierced and tore me. Was it
not long ago this thread
began to draw me? Or
way back? Was I
born with its knot about my
neck, a bridle? Not fear
but a stirring
of wonder makes me
catch my breath when I feel
the tug of it when I thought
it had loosened itself and gone.
--Denise Levertov

This poem reminded me of a line from Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited,

where Cordelia is quoting a line by G. K. Chesterton: “Father Brown said something like ‘I caught him’ [the thief] with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long enough to let him wander to the ends of the world and still bring him back with a twitch upon the thread.”

Is it all coincidence? Thread is the name of a novel I'm writing to follow Flame (another novel I'm writing). What happens if you've been naturally happy all your life, and now you're not. Ever wish you could choose for people, but you can't? What's magic? What's miracle? How will you discern? Grey grit to russet pear in the mellow dusk--worlds touching other worlds . . . Two people who agree about everything except what's important--should they marry? Who cares about the rules when you're about to die? But what if you don't die? Can people be portals to other worlds? Can you make it up with the one you've wounded before it's too late?



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