Jumpers
The frowning silence interrupted only
by the soft clack of her knitting needles,
and the random spit of a cracking log.
His latest letter, promising a homeplace summer,
now furred by her nightly caress,
thumbs tracing and re-tracing the rough x`s
of his three crude kisses.
His account of London life entrancing her.
The Irish citadels of Camden and Kentish Towns,
Tufnell Park,Archway and Upper Holloway glossed to glamour,
more characters and chancers than in any of those Fit-Up shows.
The irony. No living to be hewn from local ground
but,over there,his skill with pick-axe and shovel
guaranteeing selection when the green Transits
patrolled landmark pubs or Tube stations.
On Fridays, paper wedges tossed to muck-gloved hands,
dust-lined throats soothed by Watneys and Fullers.
The cold truth of an unwary sub granted on Tuesday
biting hard,a showband in The Gresham too redolent
of home to miss.
Another month,another lovingly made jumper.
Such care she took in the folding and wrapping,
unaware that her crafted efforts were destined
for bartered drink. Several fellow-drinkers
on notice to never wear her creations
if ever she visited.
Michael Herron
