Huddled she stood as if carved from the rock
Still and silent as the mute sway of the willows
Glowing coals poised for her moment
Sharp and clear piercing through the gloaming
Watching for the snap of voices
She called with no sound, reverberating an echo
As the mouth of heaven spoke
Thin whisps of hair caught and beckoned
Like silver strands of web
Lifted high over craggy mound and salty ebb
As gust pushed to heavens howl
And there betwixt thumb and fingers
Stretched out and held a wend of thread
Spake three times the verse
until the wind was hers
For sail or storm to unfurl
To whip the trees or the seas to hurl
Violent moan of uprush which scattered laid autumn dust
Lay spun subdued, spiralled with a hush
Caugh by twist and taught, now still were zephyrus billows
Knots of green hair were once again silent on the willows
©batsinbel3
B