Spindles filled with tattered thread
looms of rusty wood
shuttle made of ochre shed
the stains of finger's blood.

Dusty from their constant use
memories make their mark
pain that comes from sore abuse
I work in the dark.

Time, with distance, weavings
all threaded with great care.
I sit the loom a'weaving
the woof and warp

despair.


S~S