Pioneers—The Lace-Maker

Hands which had made the lace now pushed the plow Across cracking fields of reclaimed wasteland. The hot smell of summer pushed the past to A kaleidoscope of half lost fragments:

The acrid odor of wool coats drying By the hearth as English storms sang outdoors; The promised magic of new thread, spider- Fine and smoothly waiting for careful form;

The close quietness of old artisans Forming familiar patterns net-like with The fragile flourish and curve for a trim, So different from this straight, hard, dry furrow.

The lace-maker stopped his horse and slapped at A lean horsefly buzzing his steaming neck. These eyes burned by the base dust and stung by The sun would never again see that life.

Dirt-gloved hands would not form the silky threads In fine designs of royal-ranked stature. He had lost that past to the channeled task- Master of time and life-revolving faith.

Faith! His hands felt for the wood smooth handles. Gee hah! The worn horse huffed away the flies And stepped slowly on, pulling a new type Of pattern in the solid soil of now.