The Seamstress

The TV flickers
mindlessly on;
repeat after repeat,
but she wouldn’t notice.
The click of needles;
russet – the yarn
she works.

Piece on piece,
she joins together...
diamonds, squares,
rectangles and oblongs –
hexagons, and
‘what have yous’,
all in the name
of the W.I.

Fingers – stiff
with age – misshapen
with arthritis
pick and probe
at the carapace
of the righteousness
of her soul

and so they flounder
as the curlicue
of worsted thread
ravels, and unravels
like the labyrinth
of paths
inside her head
as she struggles
to make sense
of each stitch,
once, so familiar.

A heart – her
‘pièce de résistance’
finally sewn into place...
red as the roses
in the yard
and how it bleeds.

The TV flickers
mindlessly on;
repeat after repeat,
but she wouldn’t notice.
The click of needles;
russet – the yarn
she works.