THE OLD WOMAN

 

She sat, fingers gnarled wrapped around her needles

Much needed tools; one set relying on the other to create form

Brain and feeling made the moves – automatic though rheumatic

Flashing orange green and red a rainbow in the making

For years she sat, not walking out, a garment hanging on a thread

Made for others, not for her, but with love notwithstanding

 

A clown – he danced and sang. His black eyes could not see

A geriatric man with glasses and the same black eyes

A farmer’s wife, a bee in her bonnet and tears in her eyes

The mushrooms in a basket – blighted what could she do

Consult the footballer sat beside her, indolent on the settee

Waiting for the boots and laces – was that going to be?

 

The Christmas hangings Santa Angels and snowmen

Colourful garb and sparkling eyes, on branches of the family

Brought out each year in memory of Mum, with the old baubles

Made in the war – a glassblower sample with gloss paint spots

And paper flowers, like snowdrops and Christmas roses

The tree a festive delight, with chocolate coins and fairy lights

 

An empty form, limbs akimbo with open seam awaiting something

A giant scarecrow with carrot nose looking thin and ill

Until – someone put the stuffing in, and made him human

So that he was fit to cry – “Crows away fly come back another day

I am your master for this was I knit – every child knows that”

The clown giggled and the baubles wriggled on their hangings

 

She watched the action knowing they were alive – it was the love

It was the love that did it.  He lost his clown the little one and the

Search was on for the special one.  Are we co-creators of magic

The child would not sleep until she knit another.

No money changed hands but a clown was hugged to strangulation

An old woman smiled – earth angel being this, she sat back satisfied.

 

MARGARET WHITTAKER