The Women are weaving with sinew and fate,

Their spider’s web weft deftly wound

Round serrated and

Aching old fingers, foretelling,

Compelling and twining and twisting

A life.

I see luminous bones,

Slivers of runes and feathers of light,

White and beating,

Fleeting shimmers,

Glimpse, a sight, of a life.

But this life is mine, for

A time.

And Secretly, silently,

Singing spells in the strands

of hope and of health

And of love

And of life.