Looms dragging red kisses
on the inside of the knees
we clutched to our chests by night.
As Penelope and her girls unpicked theirs
we dreamt of ours,
under the weft-side of the sky.
The girl had weaved for just one day,
before the spindle bit.
Pain folded her knees, but
she clung to the thread.
Wound it around her finger,
a band of colour as bright as the sun,
on a day with no dusk,
promises as thick as buttercups.
Rachel Simons is a Welsh writer and artist. She grew up near the sea but now uses Roath Park Lake to get her fix of water-watching. By day, she works in the voluntary sector with people who are homeless or vulnerably housed.
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