Habitrot ’ s Quaich
Amanda Coleman White
Moonlit collection on a distaff , spider webs spun to silver . Grandmother fashioning threads into a plaid that warms me , a thread attached to my fate as she sits weaving it moment by moment .
Sipping from my bowl I eye hers , as curiously carved as her lined face . Following the pattern I lose my way , not having learned the taste of ether although we are meant to share . White cream tumbles down ; two streams upon my chin . This communal vessel I sip alone once more as the appetite for a welcome dram increases until farewell .
How did we come to trample the spider , she who was once revered ? The healer now damnable , her loom surely meant to poison and prick . And yet the old woman continues when the moon shines upon her wheel .
‘ A wee deoch an doruis ,’ Grandmother claims , taking up the hollow Birch even as the milk turns sour . I drink it in .