Tracks Across the High Snow
A field of cream, and across it
the few dark lines a day leaves.
The flock went over this way,
she said, and tied it down.
In February the high pastures of the Beni Ourain are white from edge to edge, and the only marks on them are the ones the day makes: a line of sheep going over the shoulder of the hill, a shepherd's path, the single track of a fox. Their rugs look like that because their winters look like that. This one is a wide field of undyed cream wool, three centimetres deep, with charcoal-brown lozenges drawn across it the way a track crosses snow, with purpose but without hurry.
It has come through the decades beautifully. The cream has warmed, the brown has held its depth, and the pile is thick and even, the wool soft enough to sleep on. It is the quietest kind of rug and it suits the quietest kind of room: pale walls, pale wood, one good piece of furniture and a lot of air.
Handwoven rugs grow in beauty, memory, and value with every passing year.