Thread

A poem about writing, sowing, family, and life.

The biro I pick up 
Is neither a mighty sword 
Nor a squat pen, used to dig.

Instead

It is a needle to sow 
With threads of colour, dark and light 
To blend fabrics found together.

It is how I’d once watch my mother 
Use patience and linen, experience and silk, 
To make with her trusty Singer

Everything from care-lined coats 
To a wedding dress, glowing with grace; 
In words and wool, lie love.

And oh  -  how the seamstress knows 
That some designs tear, and others fail 
To find a fabric’s desire to fit

And yet, with needle and thread, 
We return, to plan and trace 
The lines to wear our fashions and flair.