Over and under,
Under and out.
Thread that is fibre,
Thread that is stout.

I’m not singing;
I’m sewing.

Days that are futile,
Days that are wise,
Holding the visions
Of dead men’s eyes.

I tell you I’m not singing;
If you hear anything
It’s my needle.

Days that are prophets
With prophecies
Blunted and tangled
As Eternity’s.

I say if you hear anything –

Life-threaded hours;
Purpose that wraps
Fine stitch on fine stitch –
Then ravels . . . and snaps.