THE SPINNER:

Deep in dark forests, of those far & long-ago times,

In the places where winter fingered icy cold rimes,

There she sat spinning with her tats & her threads,

Bent over her old spindle, with her wise silver head.

Passing through fingers, gnarled, bony & blue veined,

Velvet secrets of ribbons & lacy tales silken skeined,

Colours of raindrops & rainbows from bobbins & ties,

Satin webs woven, around myths, old legends & lies.

From ancient loomed wheel of wizened old mysteries,

She spun tall tales of those-now-long-faraway histories,

Of deft Druids & fairies, of elves & old spelling witches,

Through magical memories, moonlight & invisible stitches.

The spinner of yarns & tales, from fingers gold thimbled,

Weaving & wafting, gossamer stories, felt & soft spindled,

Enfolding us gently, in cowls from our warm & snug womb,

Blowing on mantled breezes, to our final soft velvet tomb.