The Weaving Widow

A widow dressed in black attire
Silently upon a wooden stool
Sat weaving by the light of the fire.
Diligently, daintily she worked the spool.

Throughout the night the silky skein she spun,
Into an intricately, delicate design.
I, in the corner, stared as the clock stroke one;
She wove her yarn the hue of deep ermine.


She wore eight pairs of glasses upon her head
The better to see the work she had begun;
An aura of mystery hung o’er head
As night turned into day her work was done.

I gazed at this masterpiece in awe
Gleaming like virgin snow upon my door.

 Written Aug 30 © Mary Aris, All rights reserved