Knitting Poem of the Week
She comes to in the pallid absence
of infant warmth soured on her tongue.
Middle fingers blister-red
from endless purling of unfinished
matinee coats, frantic counting of stripes,
vigilant waiting for dropped
stitches, unravelling of selvedges.
Strains for that first hint
through the wall. Step by step:
bath, layette, milk
to just below boiling, mash rusk,
the rehearsed rubrics. And then wool shops.
More solid colours. Reverse sequence in yellow.
Fine lines of carmine for definition.
She moves her head towards a call
that is just too far for ease.
Maybe a touch of green
to break things up, complete
the pattern before casting off.
Reproduced with permission of the poet. From Tickets from a Blank Window, Rockingham Press, 2002.