The Weaver & the Silversmith
I am the prince of folly who Worships the metal moon, I gave her my mangled ideas, and She spun them on her loom. His words are hard and heavy, cold Like iron lumps; from a cookbook Of acids and resins, I marinade Chemicals for my silversmith. She retires to her country cocoon, Delved deep in the forest of lights, In her hand a gossamer thread, Attending to garments and chairs. Commodes and baroque tables, Hammered from the noble earth, A rasping clang of his noisy pursuit, I lay out his collection of brass. She brings me silk of lotus flower, Fresh weaves from the weavermill, Her fate woven by vanquished Athena, Arachne has spun me a reprieve. Lachesis is measuring our destiny, The shears are looking for our thread, But I’ll cast us a gem-set shell, She weaves between sleep and doom Bio: John Kelly is an Irish poet and novelist. He lives between Lisbon and London.
Fevers of the Mind 