Your threads hold me, pull me into
your worsted weave. I hear
your shuttle song, the treadle-beat,
verse after verse, wooing me.
I stretch my arms across your frame’s
embrace, touch my bridal dress
of wool, teased and spun on bobbins
that feed your hungry clatter.
Skeins of silk twist light within
its length. I measure your devotion
with my hands: my palms’ span,
the inches of my thumbs.
Salt’s Mill beside the Aire will be
our church, the weir our witness.
I’ll wear your ring of yarn, pledge
myself to you, my loom, my love.
This poem won 3rd prize at the Saltaire Festival Poetry competition 2019