The Weaver

Yes, it was a new  dawn  
But my spirits drooped  
Heavily I stooped   
lost and forlorn
in the  lawn. 

Then things changed in a jiffy 
As my eyes fell on a  weaver  spiffy.
In the first rays of the sun
It  spun
A  beautiful thing sublime 
Elegant  its  gossamer rhyme 
In every strand was hidden a tinkle 
And a buoyant chime. 

I loved  the way the weaver  rolled
On the morning cold . 
The silver gossamer strands 
Stretching from one tree to another 
were tinted in gold. 
The tiny architect and designer
Heaved and weaved  
An  intricate  web 
And received 
My appreciative glance 
As the sunbeams broke into dance 
Foxtrotting on the gossamer strands. 


Suddenly it took a false step and slipped 
Damaging the majestic tapestry,  but gripped  
A tiny strand  alternating between
Desperate ascent,
And frenzied descent.
Frantically it groped 
Clinging  to the tenuous edifice of hope
Scuttling  across  one broken strand 
Feverishly resuming   the renovation grand.  
The never say die spirit scintillated and shone   
As the  web  was reborn   
As  a beautiful rhyme  sublime. 
 An exemplary  tapestry was yet again spun 
Under the sun. 
Step by step, strand by strand
 Before my eyes there was  majesty grand.  
I saw the weaver heaving,  cleaving, retrieving  
 Firmly believing,  
 Not grieving  and  leaving 
 the weaving of this 
 Magical tapestry of  rebirth ,  regeneration 
and resurrection 
from the debris of hope.
 Now no longer did I  mope  
My spirits lifted as to me the weaver gifted 
A gossamer rhyme.  
 In every strand I heard  a tinkle  
 And a buoyant chime .
And the peals of labour 
unheard.