literature

The Weaver

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shelleypalmer's avatar
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Literature Text

He tells his tales from days of old, depicted in his threads of gold,
tales of war and tales of strife and all the wondrous joy in life.
The highs and lows are woven in, saintly deeds and deeds of sin,
the warp and weft, the fingers deft, from left to right and right to left.
Inside out and outside in, a flash of gold and silver pin.

Stars are born outside the loom, filling up his tiny room,
with permeating, blinding light, he shields his eyes as well he might.
Darkness falls across the stories, often hiding many glories,
he wonders why all sadness lingers, through his tired and aching fingers.
Inside out and outside in, a flash of gold and silver pin.

Eyes are wise, the face is lined, the world his loom, is not so kind,
the filaments are breaking oft, too worn, too used and very soft,
notwithstanding tugging, pulling, stranded ends of re-used woollen.
Bobbins dangling, threads adrift, he weaves yet on but feels a rift.
Inside out and outside in, a flash of gold and silver pin.

Time is held in constant flurry, yet there is no need to hurry,
hands now old and stiff and veined, yet not once has he complained,
pictures, sagas all are forming even as each day is dawning,
even as each night comes forth, the loom is busy holding truth.
Inside out and outside in, a flash of gold and silver pin.
© 2016 - 2024 shelleypalmer
Comments16
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Zorbonaut's avatar
This gets better every time I read it.