THE SPINNER

The spinner weaves her words like spiders’ webs,

from the thinnest of threads,

half-formed thoughts, collected phrases

and acute observations,

that she keeps stored in a small back room, in her head.

She knits them all together and turns her wheel,

spitting out full stories,

tales taking shape as she works,

the almost alchemy of something from nothing, at all.

She takes her own experience

and melds it to things seen, and heard, and felt by others,

and merges them all into one flowing thread

of words that shape the edges of a feeling,

the pull of a connection,

the picture on the inside of another’s head.

Spinner, tell me a tale, a story to soothe me to sleep,

a vision to keep me company when I feel alone,

like no one else in the whole wide world

feels the same, as I do.

Make me cry, when your tale of sorrow

touches on my own raw, and exposed nerve.

Make me laugh, with the antics of your characters

and tall tales fetched from the deep well

of collective memory.

Keep your wheel turning, Spinner,

and your words flowing,

to delight my eyes, and ears, and heart.

©Roisin Duffy

TITLE:

THE SPINNER

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