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The Weaver of Words by Clare Bevan

The Weaver of Words
Dips her ancient fingers
Inside a dark and bottomless bag,
Until she draws out a swarm of whispering sounds.

Swiftly, she strings them
Along a single, invisible thread
Where they hum like insects
On the haunted air.

Now, she takes her shuttle and leans
To complete a muttering tapestry.
Her intricate patterns can be as harsh as laughter,
Or softer than a hidden sorrow.
Sometimes they crackle like sudden anger -
But always they stitch their untold stories,
Before their secrets are lost
On a spiral of forgetfulness.

Finally, she hushes her quivering cloth,
Unhooks its loops
 And ties the last, loose murmur
Tighter than a full stop.
Tonight, she must find her perfect Listener,
The rightful owner of her precious gift.

Perhaps it will be a brave child,
Eager to carve a kindly message
On the minds of mighty leaders?
Or a broken soul whose grief waits only
For the lilt of a tune
To set its mournful rhythms free?

Could it be a traveller, who holds
A scroll of glittering memories
Ready to unroll like a Genie’s magic carpet?
Or a hungry poet who longs only
For one memorable line
To leap from dreams
And spin a whirlwind of Hope?

At last, the Weaver pauses,
Waits beside a dusty window
To catch the groan of a lonely scribbler.
She spies the crumpled notes, the inky fingers,
The trail of faulty starts...
And unleashes a plot so original,
So beautiful,
So utterly dazzling,
It will set a multitude of hearts on fire.

But beware...

The Weaver cannot be summoned
Or tamed.
Her scorn is as sharp as a spider’s fang
And her web is always ready to snare
The vain, the lazy,
The Lovers of Self.

These she will lead through labyrinths,
Coiled and clever,
Until her victims are blinded by ambition
And the false Gods of Fame.
Then critics will snap like crocodiles
And rip each proud and glossy page
To shreds of Despair.

And if You,
By luck or by fate,
Should hear the rustle of shaken words,
Remember -
Her treasures must never be stored
Like buried coins;
Nor set aside, unopened, unused,
Until all you can find
Is a rusty casket full of regrets...

While the writer who wakes in darkness
To scrawl a wild idea
Across scattered paper,
Will watch wonders grow like beanstalks,
As the Weaver nods,

The True Teller of the Tale.

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