I knit you small child;

your form a soft knotted skein

lies cast from my cord.

*

Draped and drawn to fit

your shape; you are no bind for 

your skin warms me. 

*

I am patterned by

pacing in the moon-spool nights

and your needled cries. 

*

You permeate me –

milk-sleep, blossom, soured malt.

I smell of your skin.

*

Your laughter colours

me – threads gold, ochre, honey

from your tickled ribs. 

*

In you I am stitched. 

Loose gently. My greatest fear is

we will be undone.

*

(c) Susannah Underwood 2021