Weaver

I steep the wool in a cauldron

Of pummeled gall-nuts afloat in urine

Add river-water thrice-boiled with a blood stone

Then let it breathe

Under the beams

While I prepare the lichen

Half a fist of wizard beard and rock-tripe

Yields a dye enough the whole town to paint

Lavenders an echo of the bee swing

Dazzling foxgloves shake in the salty wind

It looks like a thundercloud

Suspended from the gables

High above the bobbing heads

Which now and then look up to see what's dripping on them

So we begin

Feeding it in

Combing through the fibres gently

Searching for a yarn to spin

My lady takes a nasty tumble

Down the crumbled steps of the merchants guild

Precipitating the early onset of labour

There is a crab

Caught in her hair

Stretchering through the market

Fearful are the bellows to behold

Even with the spindle firmly clenched between her teeth

With a snap the baby's head emerges

Onto the sodden eiderdown bed pages

Even though the new born child

Is not my kin

And still lies dangling by a string

I ken the rising mystery of love

My very ancient friend