The Weaver
Each thread taught
Wound and bound
Intertwined and woven.
Like webs of silken
Splendour, spun silently
In hands so tender.
Her breath rasps
Slow, as row on row
This vision of beauty
Starts to flow
The loom lags long
In dark seclusion
Her hands so red, and swollen
Bruised and broken
On arms that hang
As heavy as lead
Beautiful silks
Spun gold and flowing
Sold for morethan
She is fed
While you adorned
In silken splendour
She lies now to
Weave no more.
Amongst the dead.
Copyright©2015 Deborah M. Hodgetts