The Indian Shawl a poem by Muriel Baker
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
This section: stories and poems
Filed under: stories and poems
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