The Weaver

On a loom outside of time, a woman weaves, unknown, sublime
Not young or old, her face unseamed, her silken hair flows like a dream
Her strong hands match the heddle's beat as toes dance lightly underneath
The shuttle flies from left, then right; for each the weft is beaten tight
She weaves a pattern rich and fine, her every move a subtle rhyme
In solemn silence, face serene, she listens there before the beam
As myriad tales surround her seat; she weaves a line of yarn for each
In the moon-soft, sun-rayed light, her weaving grows, cascades from sight

Her hands fly over shuttled wools, she sits there straight-backed on her stool
Choosing among earthly stock; reflected pools to hues of rock,
Moonlit nights ablaze with stars, searing whites of icy spars
Captures gold of eagle's eye, a speckled fawn that shadowed hide
Marking life's relentless rules, she weaves in heroes, mothers, fools
She adds a bright thread, sliver-shot, for baby's cry and cool raindrop
And melds sea sands with dabs of tar, adds rainbow's promise from afar
She cuts a thread and lets it lie; a breath away, a life has died

The loom clacks on, the Weaver hears, a world of beauty, joy and tears
For nothing's lost and all retained; the Weaver knows each colour's name
Her woven yards in folded grace, are Earth's tales woven into place
Each line's an ode, the whole a song; where nothing ends and all belongs

~ Angela Burns
(found in a local Comox Valley Newspaper by my mamma)






My first woven project - a hand-dyed, warp-faced Ikat woven with wool on a floor loom. The material that emerged was intended for window coverings and graduated to wall hangings.