Knitted

The men, they come into my home
loudly strung with all night’s stars,
all beer-glint, all roughly-bright;

they bring their heavy boots,
their boots and their heavy mud.

Their brassy, mirthful talk;
harvests and ale and golden things.

I have been in here alone,
excepting the dogs in their slumber,
husband,
husband’s brother,
and I have been spinning. And spinning,
and spinning;

spinning mice, and men,
and fates, and coarse
grey wool.

You clap each other’s backs,
the centre of your beings in the
largeness of your hands.
You bring the cold night’s mud
on to my floor.

I am the centre of your beings,
men,
I link you. Like a spinning wheel
I pull all threads together.
Cat’s cradle. Cradling you
in my fingers and my hips.

My tongue is sharp
this coldly wintered night,
this mudded night. You are abashed
like little boys, unlooking
you mutter your apologies
to the hounds.

All talking's done.