In a play of melting light
I saw it here, quite clear, tonight:
rivers bleeding, flowing cold,
spinning threads in heavy gold.
Have to say and have to do:
whatever they are telling you.
What to write and what to know,
where to stay and where to go.
Nervous like a forest fire;
crackle, spark, and blue sapphire—
almost gone and almost there:
the sibyl dancing in the air
steals your eyes to feed the flies,
and on her loom she weaves your doom,
sheer and silk in tatters torn,
but like a skin it must be worn.
And as you sleep, the stars she is spinning.
And when you wake, the world she is weaving.
And what would you manipulate?
In what way would you change your fate?
What thing then would you create
to realise your mistakes too late?
The destiny that haunts and baits,
around a phantom corner waits.
She is three, and holds in thrall
the balance frozen in its fall.
And as you sleep, the stars she is spinning.
And when you wake, the world she is weaving.
Spinning threads in heavy gold...
