Friday, 22 January 2010


A poem I wrote years and years ago, about my Mam. It's quite apt now as I'm learning crochet myself.


The bright, red wool curls
around fingers that should be tapping keys,
writing reports.

A glass of wine waits on the stool
as she counts the hooks and knots
of a crocheted spiral.

She's making him pretty neck pouches
of coloured wool because he can't afford to buy them,
and she likes to see him happy.

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