Weaving tattered threads into new patterns,
Tying loose ends with neat knots,
And deftly embroidering over gaps,
The poet crafts a new something.

Her workbox is full of snippets, whisps and fragments;
Melodies of Yeats and Hopkins jumbled in with
Simon and Garfunkel and both Dylans.
Corners of silk, bits of hessian,
Threads, ribbons, tinsel and buttons.
A smell, a touch, a song where
A dervish beat jostles with a blues melody.

She opens the lid and a ribbon curls
Into her fingers. She holds it up and
Feels its sensuous satin shininess;
Winds it around a finger, tries it as a bow;
Drops it on the table to see what pattern forms.
Like a river, it summons a whole landscape
And her pencil hurries to capture the scene.