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.