The Carpet Weaver’s Fingers
Cracked, calloused, perfectly tanned russet
And yet taut, groaning in protest
Coarsened by soft, wispy threads
Stunted and creased like loosening seams.
Weathered almost dead as skin shed by a snake
They twist and drift in a rhythmic magic
While moonlight splutters like dying flame
In the caressing breath of a spectral wind.
The shrill chirps of cicadas echo off
The thick and heavily plastered walls
As he spins the wild, unfettered yarn
In unfolding length of haunting ache.
Only in the end his unblinking eyes
Show signs of life and squint a little
As he surveys the smouldering holiness
Now instilled in a piece of fabric.
Finally, he dares to raise his gaze
Iridescent with a neon glow
A damp earthy scent clings
To muted sobs and howls of wind
Perhaps emanating from muffled whispers
Of hyenas prowling in those grassy waves
That slender fingers of the old weaver
Embedded forever in carpet braids.