When they let loose their hair,
it swept like thunder on that island,
black, fair and grey rain pouring,
unbound from shawl and hairpin,
clip and band,
that for centuries it had been
curled and coiled within,
but had now become unfastened,
allowing torrents to fall
on places of confinement,
granting long locks liberty
to submerge the shoreline,
inundate the coast,
an overflow of tresses seeking out and flooding
the homes they’d once been held in,
the limits of that terra firma,
each contour of their territory.
These fine strands covering all,
concealing glen, cliff-face and mountain,
unleashing grief and tears
that choked and welled within them
now gushing like a fountain,
cascading from the souls of those
who had been nearly broken
by the loss of children, husbands,
the ones that crossed
over into the ocean’s hold
or the harsh grip of the cemetery
that would not let go their kin.
When they let loose their hair,
it was both signal and sign
that their restraint was now over
and mourning could begin.