Where the north wind threads its silver loom,
a weaver waits in the cottage gloom.
Her fingers raw from a nettle's kiss,
and the ache of a name she crossed off her list.
The heart's last spark wore a cloak of frost,
while the mandolin whispered a promise is lost.
Oh, the bramble climbs where his footsteps led,
and the thorn drinks deep
what the moon once bled.
Sing me the song of the bramble and thorn,
where love's last seed in the wild is born.
The fiddle's breath and the
crow's low cry mark the road where the restless lie.
Weave your grief in the ivy's lace,
the earth won't hold what the stars erase.
He sailed on a tide of thistle and gin,
with a tinker's vowel and a rusted pin.
Left her a map in the cobblestone's vein,
where the cordians moan drown the rain.
Now she spins her ears into charcoal thread,
not in the dawn to the word's unsaid.
While the bramble's teeth
and the thorn's cold tongue sing the ballad of the love undone.
Sing me the song of the bramble and thorn,
where love's last seed in the wild is born.
The fiddle's breath and the crow's low
cry mark the road where the restless lie.
Weave
your grief in the ivy's lace,
the earth won't hold what the stars erase.
The crow's
chord secrets in their cold black throes,
the river chants what the ferrymen wrote.
A lantern
swings where the crossroads meet,
a dance of shadows bitter and sweet.
Oh, the bramble
grows where the brave don't tread,
and the thorn's the crown for the pilgrim's head.
The weaver's loom holds a midnight bloom,
and the thorn's embrace wears a lover's tomb.
The wind still hums its lonesome creed
as the bramble writes where the wildflowers bleed.
But her shuttle flies where the frost is kind,
a tapestry of ghosts left trailing behind.