the start of things, the making of the welsh cape. tapestry. we have none here, we have a blanket, washed and faded. we started the research and found he lived near the thing he wanted.
we have spoken before. the looms stand idle, some in store some with recognition. machines work less in cold, sheds and lack of encouragement. we worked the day with thread and needle, only turning forward, cutting cotton backward.
it is the softest white ply. woven correctly into squares. neat. colours merge, while patterns change through punctuation marks. those looms lay quiet.
seems we have not been to all the mills, never will. some are gone, yet we have seen them. seen things that are never there. lost our way, if there ever was one?
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