Meshed with goat-bruised thyme,
familiar names of unknown women
are freighted on a salt-tanged breeze,
and the tumble of surf-washed pebbles
echoes the ‘clink’ of restless weights
weft-tied at the loom.
Ever, draught-borne, in my ear,
those faceless others pulse
as the surf-sucked shores
of your distant idylls.
One who weaves ephemera:
One whose siren threads tie
in suffocating domesticity.
One who is not yet bound;
who is too young to weave.
All pattern to the ever-moving weft of you
as I shuttle threads in familiar measure:
dutifully fashion a parent’s shroud.
And when, wracked and salt-weary,
you pass once more over this threshold
I will hip-shut the door on what has gone
and be thankful for the time
when I am less loom;
you less seas.