Alive in an infinity
of weave and spin.
and misshapen
above his work.

In each thread
and each weave 
    a wondee perceived
an image revealed.

Traps concealed
in the carding
    and the making.

Tales picked apart
of lovers spurned
and ambitions unlived
    upon the loom again
All spun into
the hopelessness
of the world.

An age lived
on the treadles
    and shuttles.

The song
of the loom
and weave
    never ending.

Cloth rolled
and folded
to no end
and again,
this tapestry
    of time and motion.

Sky reflected
in a flat still ocean.
Colours blue, black,
green, ochre spun
from flora
and the fauna
of his garden.

    – Dave Kavanagh.

2 thoughts on “Weaver

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