like jazz inharmonics in a syncopated yarn
pulled along the lines of Granny’s knitting needles:
she’s knitting knots of might-have-beens
in each stitch of a pattern she’d once worn
a year before the War when wool was cheaper
than lives unchained, cast-off, unpurled;
before the death of her father drowned
in a field of mud with seeds of bloodied bullets,
and before the now of clickety-clack halt:
another stitch dropped at here and gone station.
First published in The Flea, August 2011 - Broadsheet 18
Beautiful! The rhythm of life in a syncopated yarn - How true that our lives are so "uneven".
ReplyDeleteHow sad that richness can be taken at the cost of "lives unchained".
I particularly like:
"before the death of her father drowned
in a field of mud with seeds of bloodied bullets,"
It gives one pause to consider a senseless, violent death as part of the cycle of nature.