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.
No comments:
Post a Comment