The Harpweaver, Volume I

Autumn 1994

Her thin fingers, moving

In the thin, tall strings,

Were weav-weav-weaving

Wonderful things...

And gold threads whistling

Through my mother's hand.

I saw the web grow,

And the pattern expand...

She sang as she worked,

And the harp-strings spoke;

Her voice never faltered,

And the thread never broke.