weaver of the mist (the white witch)

her icy fingers
spin the cotton thread
to robe the land in white

she walks to the house
where the old people sleep
still faces in the night

the old almond trees
all wear coats of black
mourning men who grieve

there is no sunrise
only the new light
through the mist she weaves...



a slowed heartbeat
is still unto the world
no thunder in the chest

she carries his soul
to earth freshly ploughed
where she lays him there to rest

far in the distance
she hears a newborn child
crying against the abyss

she gathers her fabric
leaves the land green once again
the weaver of the mist