Knitting In a shut and silent city within a sun-swathed courtyard I telephone my cousin (as if I was my mother). I talk gazing at camellias - their pink tipped white perfection below the bluest sky benign above the broken. I see the small apartment where

Knitting

In a shut and silent city
within a sun-swathed courtyard

I telephone my cousin
(as if I was my mother).

I talk gazing at camellias -
their pink tipped white perfection

below the bluest sky
benign above the broken.

I see the small apartment
where Marion knits a jumper

for the child she cannot see
because fast walls have risen.

The stitches of our family loop
and knit the air between us.