The weaver wears a shawl coloured like moths.

Her gold rimmed glasses twinkle in the glow.

She hums a secret song, the notes

get interwoven with the woof and weft.

From her beloved’s ivory brush and comb

the secretly collected threads of hair

are delicately spliced into the cloth,

a little gleam of gold that shimmers there.

She’s stitching now, a poem of his name

is magicked into spells to make him hers.

She writes a sonnet telling of her love

the ink is made from fingernails and tears.

And now she’s hammering, beating out her gold.

The precious metal forged into a ring.

She’s measured while he’s sleeping so she knows

the only man to fit it will be him.

A little scared, she casts her secret spells.

What is she doing? Does she mean it so?

While thirteen candles burn and incense smells.

Should she take him, should she let him go?

Shamefaced, she puts the special things away.

He is a good man, he deserves to choose.

She removes her glasses and she smiles . . . . .  

with eyes like these, what does she have to lose?