The Unfaithful Fair Isle

It’s clear that mens’ socks are promiscuous
as they never stay partnered in pairs.
The minute you put them both in the wash
one of them soon disappears!

Do they meet in the washer to plan their escape
and think, on their own, it’s more fun?
(I must have at least two dozen odd socks –
with two dozen more on the run)

And what of their partners – the ones they have left
among others of different hues,
who wait at the back of the cupboard bereft
and who wont now see inside me shoes?

Do they sit all forlorn in the cupboard to air,
dreaming one day they’ll again be a pair,
or hope that by now he is riddled with holes,
telling themselves that ‘that heel had no sole!’?





Where Have All The Young Socks Gone?

They seem to sense the safety
of the short-sighted darkness
of Winter mornings, and take refuge
in the farthest corners of the drawer
like coloured, woolly snowballs.
Only their older relatives,
weakened by holes, are left
to be chosen hopefully
with macular degenerated vision.
Not until those small pink globes appear
like stars in the sock-black sky
do I realise – but by then it’s too late!
Early morning rush.
Tonight they’ll not go
in the wash but in the bin,
although, with evenings drawing in
I know I shall forget – until tomorrow!
What happens to the Christmas pairs
laid down like fine wine on Boxing Day?
The birthday present – the ones that got away.
Where have all the young socks gone?