profile image

Knitting

 

My Mum knitted..

She watched television,

puffed on a Woodbine,

chatted about her bet

and the needles clicked

constantly.


“For the little, black babies”

she explained

as the multi coloured

T shaped garment emerged

beneath her needles.


Choosing her horses

was scientific.

If it had a nice name

she would put on a

shilling.

With Lester riding it

she would invest two bob.


Yeah, my mum knitted.

The product of earlier work

was on her head.

The tea cosy object

capped her shock of silver hair

with its nicotine flash

above the forehead

matched with a brown streak

across her fair isle hat.


If it was a pretty horse

with the right name

and Lester on board

she might risk ten bob.

These fine calculations

invariably outplayed

my Dad's balancing of

form, going, course, rider and odds.


The pile of identical

shape and size

'little black baby' jumpers

grew by the side of her chair.

The ashtray filled

on the other side.


Lester aged.

The clicking stopped.

◄ Amnesty

Low Fashion ►

Comments

Janet Ramsden

Mon 4th Aug 2008 22:34

Hi, My mum's still with us, she used to knit all our woolly jumpers in winter, even worked on a wool stall, so got it at discount prices too.
Trouble came when i wanted to knit my own, as she is left handed to my right.
Her auntie was a great one for the horses.
Picked in the top 3 every time.
Mmm, must remember to try and contact her from spirit.
Great memory jerker, Janet.x

carol falaki

Profile image

Mon 4th Aug 2008 20:31

My mum never knitted but your poem made me think of her. She liked her woodbine too, a long time ago. The last two lines say it all Thank you.

Darren Thomas

Mon 4th Aug 2008 18:48

This is a great piece delivered with your usual wry observations. The last two lines, and their simplicity, say so much in just five words.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.