Matt Simpson
Casting Off
For the kind of making I’m used to,
this wool, left-over skeins of brown
tucked too long
in the clutter of the drawer, will do.
Holding them as if they were
bundled hair of someone
I once knew, I loop them round
the shoulders of this kitchen chair
so, by myself, I can untease
them, wind them into balls,
plot a chunky polo-neck for him
to keep out winds that freeze
when he is roughing quaysides
easing ships from port. My fingers
have by now an understanding of
his winds and tides.
Cable-stitch of course. Out there
he’s casting off – unhitching ropes –
as I cast on, knitting something
else for him to wear.
Out of love or loneliness or gall?
All seem precariously true.
Needles click away the seconds, my hands,
jabbing, shadow-box upon the wall.
Page(s) 39
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