No quarter,
there will be no quarter,
Wing-Heeled Walker,
not a coin shifted
where the Styx dribbles thin.
You, Boy,
bare-arsed,
that back to me!
There will be no gilt
to flick in your fingers,
not a glint, not a glimmer
on the grim stair down.
I have paid in slices,
Snake-Snarler,
inch after inch slashed
on the slide, cold eyes
shearing tight cells
shattered to lace
as the loom tips,
loose woof warps,
the shuttle stutters
along the weave.
Fabric was never
your forte, not
the rip and stitch of it,
Shoddy-Cutter,
light hand dissembling
white-trembled
gauze glossed
over the nipped
thread. But I
have crafted
twopenny taffeta,
the sleek of satin,
canvas,
cut work,
crewel work,
shot silk
and the long wind of smooth linen.
