The Girl and The Loom

The narrow dirt road
walks you through
the tight morning light
where the moon sulks in puddles
and stars pout in a petulant sky.
Wet, red mud cushions your bare feet,
split and gilled at the heel.

The old couple at the crossroads
babble and exchange onyx smiles.
Playing card houses
rattle gently in the wind
as you slip by,
in your big soft slippers.

Nights damp mat hangs out to dry
on distant trees.
An explosion of birds,
a firework in negative
sparkles against the purple dawn.

A lazy breeze
sets whispers among the grass that
ripple far out in front of you.
You try to catch them and fail,
mud slippers flung
to the four corners of the world.
Your belly full of laughter
that shakes the sleep out of the sky.

The soft road, now hard and dry,
compacted by thousands
of considered footfalls
and a million others.
Journeys made to make ends meet,
connecting villages to towns,
arteries
providing oxygen for dignity
and veins
taking away pride.

You drop to your loom, tendons stretched
to slide under easily.
You put your fingers to the work
and you are gone,
lost in the weave.
The actors you watch in the giggling glow
dance off walls and into your heart.
A small way to fill long hours.

In a remote supermarket
there’s fifty percent off soft furnishings,
outside the pavement is worn
by a thousand
considered footsteps,
and a million others.