The Girl and the Loom.

The light pours down on her from above,

The loom tightens a cord and flexes his fingers, picking out the tune. The notes become threads of sound, the resonance of his voice becomes the framework.

Simple man, simple notes. Simple loom, simple threads.

Her voice is the shuttle, and it weaves a fine dance between the threads that the loom plays. And the end of the chorus comes, their voices tight together, pushing back the edges of the sound.

A satisfying gathering as the reeds push things tight, a new verse.

Another pick, another strum, another word, another cry,

The pattern builds and winds, the blanket takes shape, a world of understanding appearing beneath skilled tongues, skilled hands.

She sings a warmth and comfort from disconnected strands. A construction of the soul takes place, even through the saddest songs.

He plays the notes, he strums and picks, the threads are strong, her voice held fast in the net he has created for her, and her voice giving reason to his threading fingers.

The picking slows, the voice tapers away to a whisper, then to nothing.

The blanket is finished, you wrap it warm around your heart, elation in times of darkness, a comfort in times of joy.

Another song is begun, another blanket woven.

Take one off the loom.

Wrap it round your heart.