I
own a fur of gold, one that cannot be put on or taken off, that
cannot, like a garment, be loosely draped round shoulders, then later
thrown aside when it gets too warm, too stifling to wear.
What
could this fur be?
It
cannot be seen at all times of day – in the dark of night nor when
skies turn grey, unless a god – in fury or exaltation – lights
them up, with blinding flashes and tremendous forks, thrust to the
ground like weapons.
What
could this fur be?
In
summer it helps to keep me cool, in winter warm, but cannot protect
against a blazing sun or chill north winds. Or rains that come, light
and sharp, to sprinkle crops and saturate the earth. My flesh where
covered by this golden skin is always visible, and vulnerable.
What
could this fur be?
To
be perceived it has to wait for Dawn to mount her glowing throne. Or
for candlelight or unnatural light to pick it out; I'm not sure about
the moon. Only if that light is steadfast is its full effect on view,
for all to see.
What
could this fur be?
In
light, any shade of light – low-beamed or bright – individual
hairs, brushed flat or raised, seek distinction. Some short, some
long, some wiry. A few dark, some bronze, most gold. And soft when
stroked, like the pelt of a young animal, or fuzz on a peach.
What
could this fur be?
Robed,
it's as if I've been dipped in gold, face to back. A fine gold dust
for the front and gold leaf for the back, from the shoulder blades
downwards, and only stopping before the tail bone. And so creates a
gold-tipped torso, which Pallas Athena, the queen of plunder, might
envy.
What
could this fur be?
All
below that point, beyond the coccyx, is smooth, smooth as marble, and
the same tone of that stone, too, and shot through with thread veins
of purple and blue. Royal colours. The buttocks, thighs, calves,
ankles and feet unshielded by fur of any sort.
What
could this fur be?
It
is though light to wear, not strong; nor does it suggest it could be,
like chain-mail or armour, if worked right. It would never prevent a
spear or arrow piercing tender flesh, nor a sword ripping through the
body.
What
could this fur be?
But
it can be plucked and trimmed. Or shaved. Stripped away and burnt.
Though the regrowth may come in more prickly than down-like, as well
as, possibly, a dirtier shade of gold that cannot be polished by the
sun's rays.
What
could this fur be?
A
fur like this is hard to find; and yet not prized by any that admit
to being in possession of such a wondrous coat. Though those darker
in colouring say those fair in skin should thank the gods, any gods
they can think of, that may have had a hand, in weaving it for them.
What
could this fur be?
The
gift of a golden fleece can mean you're favoured among the gods, or
that one particular god champions (and defends) you. But if you've
been so blessed then you're closely observed and dealt out tests as
well as spoils, all whilst Father Zeus gazes down from his ridge on
Ida.
Could
this fur be that?
A
splendid coat won. In battle or plunder. Loosened from a felled, and
rare, beast with a fur as brilliant as golden wheat-fields when the
sun's set high, and rewarded by immortals to mortals, to mark them
out.
Could
this fur be that? The sun rays, the sharpest eyes in the world say
not.
Then,
what in the world could this fur be?
Hirsute.
Picture credit: Portrait of Adele Bloch Bauer, 1907, Gustav Klimt (source: WikiArt).
All posts published this year were penned during the last.
