The Carpet Weaver's Fingers

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.