V for victory
and a jumper’s falling apart,
stitches collapsing onto a skein
the old woman’s winding.
Sometimes things stick,
there’s a tangle of split yarn,
the child tugs,
her grandmother looks up,
Gently, gently,
and sometimes
a frayed length breaks,
small nails scratch
for a new start in matted fabric.
Later the girl holds her hands
upright like spindles, dips and rotates them
weaving liquid, magical circles
while she watches wrinkled fingers,
Vee-shaped on top of a fattening ball,
hold it steady
while the other hand winds yarn over them
so that it goes on loosely
and a spring survives in tired wool.
They sit in sun, their backs
to a frosty garden, the room
barely heated. It’s wartime
to a frosty garden, the room
barely heated. It’s wartime
and a jumper’s falling apart,
stitches collapsing onto a skein
the old woman’s winding.
Sometimes things stick,
there’s a tangle of split yarn,
the child tugs,
her grandmother looks up,
Gently, gently,
and sometimes
a frayed length breaks,
small nails scratch
for a new start in matted fabric.
Later the girl holds her hands
upright like spindles, dips and rotates them
weaving liquid, magical circles
while she watches wrinkled fingers,
Vee-shaped on top of a fattening ball,
hold it steady
while the other hand winds yarn over them
so that it goes on loosely
and a spring survives in tired wool.