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
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