I called mid-morning with your paper,
your focus at the table until lunch.
Saw you hunched over,
trying to thread a needle
without your glasses.
Refusing my help you persevered,
dodging the eye, a blindfolded gannet
spearing waves, not fish.

You relented, passed them over,
the needle, like a pewter hair,
the thread, a vivid blue.
The others stood huddled
in sparse pools,
spools retained their rainbow hues
in the shortbread tin
that Grandmother kept.

Neglected in the creaky sideboard
whose hinges squealed and told
the house of rummaging.
I poured your tea, the teapot’s lid
a gaping mouth of stainless steel,
stirred a swirl of milky cloud
in your favourite mug.
We sat, sipped in silence
and you smiled your surprise
as I stayed a while, sewed
to the turning pages
of the printed word.

© Lorraine Carey

Lorraine Carey’s an Irish poet and artist from Co. Donegal. Her work has appeared in Poetry Ireland Review, Abridged, Marble Poetry, Smithereens,The Honest Ulsterman, Picaroon, Atrium, Prole, The Blue Nib, Poethead, The Bangor Literary Journal and many others, with work forthcoming in The Curlew.

Shortlisted in both The Trocaire/ Poetry Ireland and The Blue Nib Chapbook Competition 2017, she’s a 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee. Her art has featured in Skylight 47, North West Words, Three Drops From A Cauldron and Riggwelter Press. Her poetry has been broadcast on local and national radio. A contributor to several anthologies, her debut collection is From Doll House Windows (Revival Press) She now lives in Co.Kerry.

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