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The
Tapestry II
High summer, Minas Tirith;
again we sat to sew,
our needles white and silver,
our voices soft and slow.
We sewed fair Tol Eressea
in colours bright and sharp
we sewed as one weaves music
in strings upon a harp.
Our laps were heaped with colour
a tangling of blue,
silk threads we dyed to sapphire,
a rich and brilliant hue.
We stitched his shirt and braces,
we knotted sea to sand,
we blended rose and ivory,
we wove his injured hand.
I unpicked my father's weskit
for the sunshine on his hair.
We sewed a gem upon his breast
a pearl-drop white and rare.
We spun a web of healing
his laughter sweet and wise
we wove his dreams and visions
and put them in his eyes.
We worked from what was in our hearts
with silver and with gold,
the tapestry my father loves
beyond all words untold.
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