Knitting
soft click of needles in the semi-darkness,
pictures from the turned down TV
reflected in the half-moons of her glasses,
she watches a mime of cowboys
slinging guns in a dusty street,
a stampede of shooting and horses;
all that death.
My mother is knitting a womb,
out of wool the colour of wine or blood,
her glass of wine on the low coffee table,
a man falls down dead in the dust.
My mother smiles,
she hears me in the doorway,
come in dear she says don’t just stand there,
I sit down next to her in the semi-darkness,
sinking into the cushions of the old red sofa,
she pours me a glass of wine,
a man falls off a roof,
a horse rolls in the dust.
Julia Webb
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