Day 323: The Last Weaver of Donegal
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a hundred-eighty weavers
stood proud up on stools
before the shedding began.
the craftsman left home
in pursuit of the wealth
that promised the Life
and sure made the Man.
“when a fortune i find,
i’ll buy me a house
for my love and for my littles
this twine will not do.
t’will not pay the tithe.
t’will bind me in time
an’ starve the plate of her victuals.”
so on and down
the road he went,
his pockets wide to fill,
an’ the heddles fell suddenly silent,
and the loom, abruptly went still.
one seventy-nine
were swept up to cities
where clocks kept the time
in stead of the reed.
where soft dinner napkins
laid neat upon laps
and covered the holes
that grew in the tweed.
but one weaver left
went toiling on
on the northern most end of the world
and answered each shed
with a food made of threads
to keep his own mighty fabric
from comin’ unfurled.
but it wasn’t the clicking
of rapier crossing
that filled the mind of the man;
for questions did stir
like un-wefted soldiers in waiting,
unanswered
though stretched ‘cross the span:
what builds of a builders’ trade?
what’s left of all
that the maker has made?
“click!”
called the pirn,
“no answer, good man,
shall be given to thee,
but carry on and carry on,
for warriors true are carried on me.”
so straight went the warp
‘fore the weft did fall,
and on went the Weaver
of Donegal.
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