Each Sampson has his Delilah.
Not all Delilahs are dancing beauties, smiling tender lies with enchantress eyes.
Some Delilahs creep from the inside out. Crone-wise and clever.
Come to collect that morsel of strength.
Come to collect their due.
There is no end to Delilahs.
And yet Sampson is unfinished.
A hard act to follow, that Sampson. Waiting in darkness.
His shorn locks are taken.
His glory becomes new-made in the nestlings it nurtures.
The friends of his dark time have no truck with Delilahs.
Scrabbling at the roots of things they weaken immortal stone.
Chewing the pain of what was. Spitting out what can be.
And so he conquers.
Delilah shrieks in Sampson's granite rain.
Her intricate palace in ruins.
For what is cut asunder can be retied.
The new-braided yarn is stronger than the old.
The re-woven design more intricate.
No Sampson can be kept low forever.
Poem © 2010, E. Bourne. Used with permission.
Photos © 2010, Shelly Rae Clift.
This work by Shelly Rae Clift is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.