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

One thought on “Knitted

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