…If time could bloom anew once more
For those warped tales thy fingers spun,
Then thou wouldst fathom what I bore
Each day ‘twixt spines where dust hath won.

Thoughts about it – by E. Ashcroft

The poem articulates a conditional lament built on retrospection and quiet accusation. There is no unfolding action, only a hypothetical wish: if time could “bloom anew,” then understanding might finally occur. The speaker addresses an absent or distant “thou,” whose past actions are described obliquely as the spinning of “warped tales.” The implied story is minimal but clear enough: one figure created narratives, interpretations, perhaps deceptions, while the speaker bore their consequences in silence. The poem does not dramatize the conflict; it presents its residue. This is a poem written after the fact, in the long calm that follows exhaustion rather than in the heat of rupture.

In terms of meaning, the central tension lies between creation and endurance. “Thy fingers spun” suggests dexterity, agency, even a certain pleasure in fabrication, while “what I bore” is passive, weighty, and sustained over time. Understanding, the poem suggests, is not a matter of explanation but of temporal relocation. Only by reliving time differently could the addressee grasp what the speaker carried. This is a familiar idea, but it is handled with restraint. The poem does not beg for sympathy; it states a condition and leaves it unresolved.

Stylistically, the archaic register is controlled and largely effective. “Thou,” “thy,” “wouldst,” “’twixt,” and “hath” form a coherent linguistic field and are not deployed gratuitously. That said, the register does some of the poem’s heavy lifting. The emotional content is austere, almost spare, and the elevated diction provides a gravity that the images alone might not fully sustain. This is not necessarily a flaw, but it is worth noting. One occasionally senses the scaffolding of tradition supporting a sentiment that risks being slender.

The final line is the poem’s most successful gesture. “Each day ’twixt spines where dust hath won” is an economical and evocative image. The spines clearly suggest books, records, or accumulated narratives, now inert, overtaken by neglect. Dust here is not merely time but verdict. It implies that whatever was written, spun, or believed has lost its urgency. The speaker’s endurance took place in an archive of the obsolete. This image anchors the poem, grounding its abstraction in a tactile, almost claustrophobic space.

Technically, the quatrain adheres to an ABAB rhyme scheme, pairing “more” with “bore” and “spun” with “won.” The first rhyme is straightforward and unremarkable, functional without surprise. The second is more interesting, as “spun” and “won” create a subtle moral tension. What was “spun” has, in a sense, “won,” at least temporarily, while the speaker was left to bear the cost. The meter is steady, though the opening line carries a slightly ornamental softness that borders on generic. “If time could bloom anew once more” is pleasant but familiar, and one might wish for a less pastoral metaphor to introduce a poem otherwise concerned with distortion and dust.

Overall, the impression is of a poem that is composed, dignified, and emotionally contained. It does not shout, nor does it plead. Its strength lies in its refusal to overexplain and in the quiet authority of its closing image. Its weakness lies in its caution. The conditional frame keeps the poem at a safe remove from immediacy, and the language, while polished, rarely risks abrasion. One finishes the quatrain with a clear sense of weight and endurance, but also with the suspicion that the poem knows exactly how controlled it is. It bears its sorrow well. Perhaps a little too well.

Marco Delrio