A light shone on a young Joan’s face
Through the gaps between dusty blinds
In gentle illumination she sat still
And solemnly clasped shut her eyes.
Mother made busy with the scissors
And set the bowl around her head.
Joan sat silent with her hands dug
Firmly beneath her legs; and turned red.
Mother manoeuvred the mirror
To display all the angles of her artistry.
And as she opened her eyes
She thought of her school
Of giggling girls with perfect plaits
And how the boys that sat with them
Would call her Joan of Arc.