The wind sings like a rowdy drunk on this colourless day,
as we cosy together from a distance.
I dig into the buttery egg, cooked in a chipped cup, on the gas stove,
a smidgeon of salt added at the last.
I watch as she settles into her chair,
turned to meet the electric heat with an unhindered view.
The click clack marathon begins,
as the familiar sprawling notes of the TV intro play.
Her tender velvet hands, soft as merino,
cast on, her eye distracted by the patterns.
Her unattended fingers move elegantly at speed,
the dwindling balls jittering at her feet.
Purl, garter, and moss coaxed in vibrant hues from skeins and hanks,
slowly entwine.
Creations to be fawned over by emerald, green young mothers,
joyous in their bundle of joy.
They don’t know the skill, the years, the pleasure,
infused into these small delicates.
Vestments permeated with love, testament to her way,
outpouring hidden in the construction.
This mohair momentum disturbed only by sporadic sips of the milky coffee,
cooling by her side,
Scottish accents lilt from the telly as I shuffle copybooks of exercise,
trying to impress.
I play with my cup, half the size of hers, more milk than caffeine,
a squeeze of pride in the prize.
A big boy drink for a well-behaved son,
happy to sit still while she savours her peace.
We remain in this warmth until a key in the door signals an arrival,
and the close of afternoon quietude.