Tapestry

Weaving.

The loom is quiet.

Its treadles are still.

The shuttles, once filled 

with sombre weft spools

of darkly shining silk,

are almost spent.

Silently I add new shuttles,

splice a brighter palate

for an open French door,

light, zephyr-lifted curtains,

transparent, silver, morning light,

rich complexity of sun

sparkling on myriad green

and the sense of birdsong.

Yes, there must be birdsong.

There must be joy.

Yet let me unroll the cloth roller

and look at you for one last time

as you shuffle along

your darkened corridor.

It is well before dawn.

Those visions of children

which so haunt your sleep

have woken you again.

Your stoop is not just 

the weight of years

but a heavier load of guilt

bearing relentlessly down.

Over and over again

come those terrible words:

“Whatever will people think of me?”

Too late for that now.

I re-roll the cloth.

I have grieved long enough.

Through the open door is blue sky.

But I will weave through 

every scene that remains

those little bits of glowing silk thread 

that depict the light of your eyes

and the gentleness of your smile.

I must also take one thread 

of dark sombre silk,

a sadly powerful reminder

of the tragedy and folly that comes 

when independence is surrendered,

when strength of body wanes

and the diminished spirit

grows vulnerable and weak.

I re-arrange the shuttles with spools

of shining blues and green

and splashes of gold and vermillion.

I put my foot to the treadle. 

With a clatter the parts move

and warp thread absorbs weft

and the tapestry moves on.

Let all your years of goodness

outweigh those final spools

of silent, secret surrender.

Now take your peace.

Dream no more.

Wring your hands no more.

Rest quietly.

Sleep easy.

I let you go.

Goodbye, dear one.

Goodbye.

Goodbye.

First published at Antiheroin chic