The Weaving Song

The weaving song

The wireless messages have warned
but waves designed this one escape,
for whom the weaving songs have mourned
embroidering the seas' agape?

Concealed the paths, red spilled wine,
blue ribbons o'er a twilit throne
discolored undulate alone,
seas destined be, ourselves to shrine.

Her chordal assonance I knew,
befallen soul's charisma lost,
how she enthralled my nineteenth ghost,
in orchards of ennobled rue?

(The ribbons beckon neath the stars,
and ocean asks his crossing tolls
the scythes of Northern swanning calls,
conduct our unforgiven mars.)

Beneath the sky, expected groom,
the maiden's married solemn bid,
she weaved my fate on ancient loom,
- I felt the depths' insatiate greed.

Begotten valor, thistle proud,
she threaded her betrothing due,
and o'er the brines, engulfing shroud
the ship encompassed and crew.

G.V.