The Industrious Stitch

Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust In a hollow on the council tip, where Motionless it stands, in time rigid; still. Fashions in one’s mind, grandma’s legacy Of skill, stitched in a place named ‘Tunic Mill’ A long row of stone wall terrace houses, Families of weavers, sewers of yarn Alas, now bones that lay in the graveyard. The war years seemed like only yesterday The men over yonder, their spirits tall With loved ones left behind to battle on, Carve out a living, mend uniforms torn, Holes where bullets have pierce and shrapnel ripped Blood stains a regard, to what laid therein. ‘An ill-wind doused their flame, and the life of The candle spluttered, spent, and all was dark.’ © Harry J Horsman 2018