journal of a writing man
Work in Progress
Passed time
At the town dump, pausing
to see what others have brought
I find a fist-thick bundle of knitting needles
tied with faded yarn and propped
in a battered dried milk can painted pink.
In the white sun I remember
when women knitted, furious, bird-beak clacking,
in every bare-bulbed back room in our street,
knitting for victory, knitting for tears,
knitting because time has to be passed,
has to be passed in case it stops.
At each row's end the freed needle
was turned over and used to scratch the
hair thatch, or down the back of a twin-set
while the knitter reached for another sip of tea.
John Bailey
Somerset, April 16, 2002
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