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
I see luminous bones,
Slivers of runes and feathers of light,
White and beating,
Glimpse, a sight, of a life.
But this life is mine, for
And Secretly, silently,
Singing spells in the strands
of hope and of health
And of love
And of life.