The Maker

the old weaver
unpicked by age
laid his grey weft
asleep beneath
the nights frame,

and god threw
starry shuttles across
the satin loom,

until the cloth unrolled
its darkness, his flesh
the colour of the moon,

and on the edge
of evenings threads
two small white birds
dabbed in the distance
flew their way seaward,

a makers motif
marked in the air
a weavers heart
a masters piece.


JGH(C)2004