She dwells, chuckling, in the dusty cellar,
The loom clicking hungrily like a starving beggar,
Taking the fabric and strands of thread, in its gaping maw,
A beast growling and bellowing, filling its jaws.
She spins, as the growing sunlight shimmers over floorboards,
Dextrously, eager glints in her eyes sparkle in awe,
Moulding the canvas into neat structures and patterns,
Yellow teeth grinning mischievously, she leers in an odd fashion.
Red thread, binding and flowing like a new birth,
Embraces the sun and the pristine new dawn unearthed,
Almost sighing, delight at being stretched and woven,
Its mother cackles like a venerable hag in her coven.
"Weave with me," she whispers in a sibilant hiss,
Her breath dropping like dew from a mist,
"Bind with me," she urges, her mind devoted to the task,
Creating new material, to breathe, is all she asks.
The drums echo in her ears, booming their strength,
The time has come, change to wield like a powerful goddess.
She imagines her work enveloping the lands,
Cascades of red enticing the soil in her hands.
It is a dream, and my eyes blink,
A realm of unseen wisdom laughs and winks -
I look down, and note my new clothes,
I remember now, how my mind truly unfolds.
Pixie
