She sits winding strands of story into her babby’s hair – just like I used to do with hers. My gnarled fingers still twist ears of corn into spiralling plaits, listening as she speaks.
“Night time’s drawing close,
harvest’s gathered in;
Into the womb she goes,
to sleep until the spring.”
Crackles rise from the fire and half-heard cackles of laughter ring round the gossiping group. Mouths and minds free to roam as busy hands knot.
When the babby cries, her mother, my daughter, puts down the little bundle of straw, turning her braiding to her child instead – as now. Soon both are chuckling: the corn lace imperceptibly twining in her hold again.
I breathe in the soaked-wheat scent, pungent and rich in thick warm air.
Kern babby, corn mother, vetula.
Weaving spirit lives.