My Mother's Knitting

Now needles fall through fingers
she knits none, drops one, forgets all,
pattern stays inside the woollen ball
now feeble eyes fold up her colours.

Now little sleeps are stepping stones
across the slow rush of her minutes,
above the clock a painting of a lake
she sits with her lover on it's shore.

Her guesses over look all answers
gentle stabs in the darkness miss,
her ancient morning is a lost age
my mother's knitting a loose end.


John G.Hall(C)2006