(Poem) Sister Thorn by Louise M Hewett

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Thorn, that’s me.

I am a boundary, an island.

Aye, an island. You’ve become

so entranced with this island of late.

Do you see these colours I weave for you?

Sun in the sea, but only at certain times of day;

the purple heather, rust earth, red hills.

Lichen softens the sharp

edges of tools long abandoned.

Here, try this one: orchil. Steep harvest with

waste and see what comes.

I am your sister, Thorn,

I am weaver of islands, of ways between,

of journeys that have been made

and have yet to be made.

I roam field and glen,

gather what is needful,

use the spindle whorl,

one step on the journey;

fingers pinched feed the rhythm

just so. Fleece fills the spindle

and then I twist, spin, become

something new. My shuttle flies.

The pouch I have made holds treasures,

ho ro, can you guess?

Can you story them?

Here, take my shawl and wrap yourself.

Look out across the land.

Warp and weft, boundaries held.

All colours are needed.

All forms are valued.

Come now,

wrap yourself in this wisdom,

we will weave together, aye:

fleece, ways, words, stories,

a shell, and a gull’s feather here and there

to remind us of the sea-birds wheeling

over the indigo sea

when seas are rough.

Sister Thorn, that’s me.

Here I am, with you.

Louise M Hewett (2020)


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