The Ghoul and the Weavers
The house was empty all the while
as they sat and worked the loom
to weave the cloth to sell next spring.
Though something made a bang and boom
that made them jump and the glasses ring,
the house was empty all the while.
Each night one fewer in the room,
each morn one less to pull the weft,
as they sat and worked the loom.
The loom is stopped, the air is numb
with sisters’ screams though none are left
to weave the cloth for springs to come.
Okay, this was just for fun, an extra cascade poem for Big Tent Poetry.