harvesting colour





‘I almost believe in magic…’

says Pia, a dyer



as twilight fits between tatters of birch

and shadows twitch, she lugs

water to the circle of stones

peeks into the pot to see

if simmering has ceased, lays her hand

on the curve of the cauldron, fetches

the maple staff from the V of the branch

where it loves to lean, lifts

the yarn from the dyestuff, flows

from the stick like water and red

dye weeps from fibre, cinnamon

brown, she says, and wishes

for green



Previously published: The Dalhousie Review 94.3 Autumn 2014

Copyright Jane Tims 2015