The loom is a stave that cotton falls on,
sometimes looks like music notes to the whimsical.

We lie with our backs flat to the cold stone-
never take our eyes off it. Every so often
there is a hiss of movement as one of us skims
from our bottom G, climbs a note or two,
picks a semi-quaver, and falls fast.
All for a tuppence. Not even enough for fruit.
Sometimes one of us is slow.
We cover our eyes until the mess is clean again.

In the evenings, we collect our slim coins, head home
through the streetlights and welcoming rain,
with the taste of plums in our mouths.