Penelope Waits
David Fawcett

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Weaving, weaving, she spends each day weaving

She weaves through the day - every day while they watch.


But when the night falls, when the suitors are sleeping,

she undoes each day’s work one thread at a time.


Watching, watching the far off horizon

she hears that he wanders in the far distant lands.


Hoping, hoping to see her most dear one

to hold him again in their olive root bed.


Weaving, weaving, she spends each day weaving

She weaves through the day - every day while they watch.


But when the night falls when the suitors are sleeping,

she undoes each day’s work - one thread at a time.


Waiting, waiting while here suitors stand ever

in long apprehension of a choice never made.


Praying, praying, she goes on delaying

the name that they wish for - the word she won’t say.


Searching, searching for a sail in the distance;

for a ship on the reaches of the great wine dark sea.


Weaving, weaving, untangling, wondering, hoping;

waiting, waiting for her dear one’s return.


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