Its ever so chilly on warm summer evenings,
small weaving classes numb fingers and minds.
Its time for a start said the boy from the priesthood,
yet critiques on being take up most of his time.
The old ladies come not for idle sensation,
but from the imperious boredom of age.
With herring bone fingers they stitch vivid pictures,
of steel eyed invaders and jettisoned slaves.
Intentions however lie wrecked on the shoreline,
while bold Spanish soldiers put mountains to flame.
Like so many hot heads with week-end derangements,
they left their enticements to spread like a stain.
Deep shadows creep over engulfing the temple,
the glow of each star shines down like a curse.
They sing of Jerusalem yet no one can find it,
on the old parchment map in the cracked leather purse.
Its ever so chilly on late summer evenings,
paste jewellry classes are cut to the bone.
Exchanges through barter are all thay they need,
and economy's running on bright coloured beads.