The weaver…

He sits cross-legged and weaves his threads
And recounts his tales in children’s heads
And when he ends each woven line
He claps his hands and makes a sign.

And all the heads of boys and girls
Are filled with magic tales of worlds
Where mountain trolls and dwarves and elves
All live in books on library shelves.

Some are good and win the play
While others meet their fate today
And magic potions cast their spell
While fairies watch that all is well.

The weaver brings them all to life
The Giant and Jack, and the Farmer’s Wife
And all the stories children read
In to their heads he plants that seed.

And as the weaver turns a page
A sleeping child he’ll thus engage
A smile will form upon his face
Another child is safe in place.

For he was tasked to do this right
And keep all children safe at night
So his soft voice sounds in their ears
He keeps them free from night-time fears.

©Joe Wilson – The weaver…2016

The weaver…a very different sort…

He sits cross-legged and weaves his thread
And fills their heads with tales of dread
And when he ends each woven line
You live or die, he gives the sign.

And though you barely hear his voice
You have to listen, you’ve no choice
For if you don’t, or if you’re late
Surprise will then precede your fate.

For some their journey ends in Hell
To burn forever in sulphured smell
While others who have better luck
Can walk away and close the book.

But he can grip you with his tales
You get drawn in, he never fails
And once you turn your eyes to him
The chance of leaving gets too slim.

So if you see the weaver there
Cross-legged upon your bedside chair
You may decide to turn and run
Before his sordid tale is spun.

Weaver, weaver spin your thread
But keep from me your evil dread
Spin some silver, spin some gold
Show the tales that will unfold.

©Joe Wilson – The weaver…a very different sort…2016