The Colour of Crushed Berries
Children come down from the brambles in June
with their mouths and fingers the same colour.
She saw it, and she wanted it on the floor.
Four metres of it, worn soft since.
In June the children of the Zaïan plateau come down from the brambles with their mouths and their fingers the colour of crushed berries, and nobody can get it off them for a day. A weaver who had seen that forty times wanted it for a floor, and this is what she made: four metres by two of a deep raspberry that is neither the red of a wedding rug nor the pink of a weak dye bath but something brighter and more wanted, with the Zayan diamonds set across it in rows.
The pile has worn low with the years, a close centimetre now, which has turned the rug into something that lies flat and quiet on the floor and lets the colour do the work. It is a big piece and a happy one. In a room with pale grey walls and a long oak table it is the fruit on the table, and it will not be ignored.
Handwoven rugs grow in beauty, memory, and value with every passing year.