It is called Penelope. I understand the first verse and half of the last verse.

At first, I looked along the road
hoping to see him saunter home
among the olive tree,
whistle for the dog
who mournded him with his warm head on my knees.
Six months of this
and then i noticed that whole days had passed
without my noticing.
I sorted cloth and scissors, needle, thread

thinking to amuse myself,
but found a lfietime's industry instead.
I sewed a girl
under a single star - cross-stitch, silver silk -
running after childhood's bouncing ball.
I chose between three greens for the grass;
a smoky pink, a shdow's grey
to show a snapdragon gargling a bee
I threaded walnut brown for a tree,

my thimble like an acorn
pushing up through umber soil.
Beneath the shade
I wrapped a maiden in a deep embrace
with heroism's boy
and lost myself completely
in a wild embroidery of love, lust, lessons learnt;
then watched him sail away
into the loose gold stitching of the sun.

And when the tohers came to take his place,
disturb my peace,
I played for time.
I wore a widow's face, kept my head down,
did my work by day, at night unpicked it.
I knew which hour of the dark the moon
would start to fray,
I stitched it.
Grey threads and brown

pursued my needle's leaping fish
to form a river that would never reach the sea.
I tried it. I was picking out
the smile of a woman at the centre
of this world, self-contained, absorbed, content,
most certainly not waiting,
when I heard a far-too-late familiar tread outside the door.
I licked my scarlet thread and aimed it surely at the middle of the needle's eye once more.