Weaver

I steep the wool in a cauldron Of pummelled gall-nuts afloat in urine Add river-water thrice-boiled with a bloodstone Then let it breathe Under the beams While I prepare the lichen Half a fist of wizardbeard and rock-tripe Yields a dye enough the whole town to paint Lavenders an echo of the beeswing Dazzling foxgloves ashake 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 bedpages 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