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