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)