Spinning and Weaving
Drawing threads from here and there,
Hands long used to hard labour
And the bite of wind and sea
Now spin and weave
The story of our line,
Trace our seed in warp and weft
With colours drawn
From soil and sand, shrub and bloom
That speak our history in its sett.
It is the way of things
As story gives way to history
And on to ingrained legend
To find its way into our blood and bone.
We are all made of what our parents made us
And cannot root the story from our own.
We are spun into a never-ending cloth
That spirals to our roots,
Where e’re they lie,
Then rise to meet us through the ages.
It is ours to add another inch or two
And pass it on to other hands
More adept with added practice,
More skilled in added lore than mine.
The wheel spins out its thread.
The shuttle weaves in its pattern.
The loom churns out its cloth.
We are the output of many labours,
The product of many hands.
We add our small measure
To the work that binds us
To the whole
And then move on.
Palimpsest 
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