travelling by magic

.
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
.
WB YEATS

the cloth beneath my feet takes me all over the world,
out of this world and into others,
and far far out, into the depths of time and space. . .
.

you have all woven the cloth with me:
you helped me thread the warp, on my loom,
which is made from pure love

and sun beams

and shafts of light

and you helped me choose the strands of the weft. . .

some of the threads are pure spun gold
(stolen from Rumpelstiltzkin no doubt),
some silver filaments from the hair of witches,
some rusted iron wires from the needles in the haystack
.
and the iron bars surrounding emprisoned persons
whose only escape from their circumstances
is a journey like ours
.

some fibres are silk from the cocoons of insects
in places full of eastern promise,
and some cotton from those of western decadence;
some spun from the grass on the other side of the fence
. some spun from the carded hairs of polar bears,
who we brushed and groomed
while they gently slept under the Northern Lights
(difficult to spin, as they are hollow and snap easily
- but we spun them none the less);
some from the feathers of Emperor penguins,
which we picked up
from the Antarctic snows in the middle of a blizzard;
and some from the fallen feathers of angels
.
yet more from locks of mermaid hair. . .
.

the most wonderful thing about the cloth
(apart from its clueless camping corner with the jacuzzi)
is that it never ever ends. . .

. . .we are still spinning and weaving. . .

. . .adding pattern and texture,
patching and mending rips,
whilst mopping the tears that wash it clean
and smoothing balm onto our sore skinned hands

it goes on and on. . .
. . .like the journey

. . .like the view

.
what can I say?