The old women are weaving
flags to wave over our land,
good for scaring birds
as harvest time comes around.
They could just as well weave
a scarf for each man or wraith
who has to leave them cold
as wartime comes around.

They wove the fine threads
colours of joy and plenty
that long forgotten enmities
somehow increase upon.
They wish just to be weaving
soft caps for bonny babes
who'll grow like tendrils green
twined among village sons.