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Nicolette Golding

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Sewing Circle

Lately it seems a bevy of needlewomen
gather in my house while I’m at work.
At first they left no sign but the warm whiff
of a well-oiled Singer, the odd thread,
but I could hear the floorboards’ after-thrum a good half hour.
Now, when I come in I find
costumes of wizardry
hanging on doors,
dresses, viridian, cobalt spread across my bed like maps,
segments of a hat, pattern pinned for cutting in the morning.
Everything tidy. Not a scrap wasted. There are
nine of them I think
judging by the cups.

Pulling soft chambray of their day’s easy laughter over my head
I am touched by the neatened edge of love-sewn seams,
find they are intimate with the contours of my middle age,
have herring-boned gladness in the pocket of one sleeve,
more importantly, have understood the concept of a soft
but sturdy bra. Lying back in finery I think
what sounds must live and throb within my walls,
the whirr and hop of bobbins, steady treadle of wisdoms, hungry bite
of pinking shears crocodiling thick rivers of velvet, corduroy.

Don’t get me wrong
they respect my space, keep away when I am home,
but today, sick and grizzling with a cold
I know that jacket, tailor-tacked on my green chair wants its darts
done now,
pins are restless in their cushion.


Joint Second Prize of the Bedford Open Poetry Competition 1998

Page(s) 69

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