Atop the frozen river breaks footsteps
The caravan of rags, thrown from estates
Carried by wind and settled on paths
Ahead a horse, rearing, breaks through ice
There is no ground on which to run
All is fragile, shuffling and unsteady they move
There is no savior where tiptoe may break glass
Skin tears from frost, thrashing
Produces a long, tender thread
In two months time he will be fed into looms
For now the gathering: meat made one more rag
The bundles that move, move on
…
The little ones that scurry, they are dragged
By their beards and their horns
From the crowded wicker houses, ten to a room
They melt into paving stones
Feet become millwheels
Sweat become grain
Pen and Screen 