My joy is worn thin as are my fine clothes
I still recall their colour
like the scent of sweet days
A dove might fly to a white house
but what flies to grey and grim
Forgive me if too long I lingered
where the swan glides and poets dream
I would awake and seek a weaver of cloth and words
and the house that remembers warm and kind
but the stones and walls
were broken in the clamours of the earth
and the loom lies stilled