The Indian Shawl a poem by Muriel Baker

indian shawl pixabay

Exotic birds of fantasy

from the dyers vats of colour

tamed by the hand of the weaver.

Creatures from the imagination

unreal and like no other.

The silk worms die in boiling vats.

The plants give up their colour

to make a scarf, a shawl, a wrap

for someone else’s mother.

I hope the skill of the artisan

Keeps someone from a worse fate

I hope the price we offer

Isn’t lost in the exchange rate.

In a not so distant past

Our women toiled in mills

On the banks of the River Cart

surrounded by green hills

At least the Indian weavers

With designs so bright and bold

Were not shivering

Their fingers blue with cold.

I find it easier to equate

with sisters under the skin

I can’t understand today’s poverty

Where the poor are fat not thin.

The Indian Shawl.         Muriel Baker  31/ 10/ 17

Three Haibun by Robin Lloyd-Jones
Plum Stone Throat a poem by Jen Gray

This section: stories and poems

Filed under: stories and poems

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Avatar of PatByrne Publisher of Pat's Guide to Glasgow West End; the community guide to the West End of Glasgow. Fiction and non-fiction writer.

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