The Weavers

written by


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As sometimes, in the gentler months, the sun
will return
  before the rain has altogether
  stopped and through

this lightest of curtains the curve of it shines
with a thousand
  inclinations and so close
  is the one to the

one adjacent that you cannot tell where magenta
for instance begins
  and where the all-but-magenta
  has ended and yet

you’d never mistake the blues for red, so these two,
the girl and the
  goddess, with their earth-bred, grass-
  fed, kettle-dyed

wools, devised on their looms
transitions so subtle no
  hand could trace nor eye discern
  their increments,

yet the stories they told were perfectly clear.
The gods in their heaven,
  the one proposed. The gods in
  heat, said the other.

And ludicrous too, with their pinions and swansdown,
fins and hooves,
  their shepherds’ crooks and pizzles.
  Till mingling

with their darlings-for-a-day they made
a progeny so motley it
  defied all sorting-out.
  It wasn’t the boasting

brought Arachne all her sorrow
nor even
  the knowing her craft so well.
  Once true

and twice attested.
It was simply the logic she’d already
  taught us how
  to read.

© Michael Rosen