She bent, once more in a dim light of the evening
Half watching a movie that she’d seen before
A thousand times, along her strings, knotted now
Into an impossible concoction of eye hurting colours
The warmth spread across the treads she touched with care,
She’s not going to be sick this winter
She casts it as a spell onto an ashen, spidery plot
We are blind, but she can see it all within the pattern
The movie is over, credits race through the dark screen,
The clock on the wall calls twelve, the hour of endings
But she doesn’t stop, giving herself five more minutes of love
Weaved into the shawl that not even Moirae can touch
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