On the cobbled dusty corner of old Luna street,
Where all the kiddies play & the townsfolk meet,
In a small beveled shop window she always sits,
Where she darns, tats, sews, weaves & daily knits.
Dressed forever in black & an old tatty velveteen
hat,
Beside her always, her moggy asleep on an old tat mat,
Daily there, old, grey, stooped, working stitch by
stitch,
Kiddies running past call to her, “Hello good old
witch.”
Into babe´s christening garb she twines wishes blessed,
Replacing teddies lost smiles & fixing dollies small
vests,
Into the gown of the bride she weaves spells of pure
joy,
Mends patched knees in pantaloons of tumbled little
boys.
Dresses & petticoats of ladies, maids &
precious little girls,
Buttons, ribbons, bows & pretty frills that fly
& gaily twirl,
With old fingers, old machine, needles, wool &
silken threads,
Toiling while the sun shines & at night when all
are in their beds.
Treats for passing puppies & sweeties for all the
little kiddies,
Smiles for one & all & village gossip for the
town´s old biddies,
Nobody knows her name, nor when or from where she came,
The old seamstress, always there, ever alone, always the
same.
She is blessed with her old magic fingers, thin, swift
& very deft,
Working into her weaving, love through every stitch &
folded weft,
Her wishes woven into soft lamb´s wool & smiles
within the weaves,
Her laughter resounds within her garments & hugs within
the sleeves.
Velvets, satins, twill, tweed & wool, delicate threads
of shimmery silk,
Flowing through her flying fingers, as soft as the wailing
whale’s milk,
Not a single stitch seen, every one transparent to the
mere mortal eye,
No questions dared asked, no word passes lips & yet
no one knows why.
Who is this old lady who has always been there, sewing
in her little chair?
Who is she, stooped & old, dressed in black & old
hat with long silvery hair?
Is she just an old lady, or as the kiddies call her, a
smiling & kind old witch?
Or maybe she´s just an old seamstress weaving mystery,
stitch by magic stitch.
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