Moments woven, knitted loosely on blunt needles,

ticking, clicking, knotting, tying, holding in place,

so many images, thoughts, feelings and fears –

as if, drawing it all together could make something

tangible, substantial, real, lasting, enduring, as if

in the threading together some form could be set

surely, securely, comfortingly, in my mind, where

all that was, could be held safely, kept tidy, locked

away, so that what had been could never be taken

away, as what was, had been taken, and what might

be, had been lost and unravelled, scattered across

the cold floor of being, tangled around the shabby

furniture of loving, leaving me alone, with no more

than the slow, sad, knitting together of fading threads

of fragile, soft and yielding lengths of bitter yarn.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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