The Lacemaker

Lacemaker   Island of Burano

In the rocking chair by the old stone fireplace she sat. The bobbins clicking together as her fingers deftly wove her silks into delicate patterns. Maybe not to the standard of the most skilful ladies of Bruges or the Venetian ladies of the Island of Burano but her work was exquisite. As the chair gently rocked and the spluttering wood of the fire warmed her she fell into that delightful half awake, half asleep state her lace forgotten slipping to the floor She rocked slowly dreaming of what? Her youth? A past lover? It is her secret and will remain so.