Glitches in my knitting
stitches dropped by
lapsed concentration as
I sip my tea
wipe milk from baby’s sleepy face
listen to a train in the distance rolling on to Londontown
where I worked until this illness laid me down.
I stare at the tea stains
on the Peter Pan pattern
like Mrs Darling examining
a left behind shadow.
Unfortunately Mrs D
was a tidy sort of woman
not like me and I suspect
not like you, who owned
this pattern before me.
We might lose stitches and spill our tea
but we’d never pull
a child-size shadow in from the window
for fear it looked like dirty washing
and roll it up and put it in the
drawer.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
