Knitting for my Grandmothers

For hours I sit
hunched under lamp light,
with a cup of tea
sweetened with carnation milk
to keep me company.

Concentrating,
Hands moving steadily
until they are cramped
and fingertips are sore.

Needles click and move

Across
Up
Under
Down
Over

Yarn twirling,
and bit by bit,
cloth appears.
Slowly,
trailing away from hands
in twisted uneven stitches.

With patience
a scarf,
a hat,
a blanket,
and part of a sweater.

I wish I had learned when they were here:

My father’s mother,
who would sit in her chair
with objects of purpose;
wool socks,
trigger mitts
and baby sized sweaters
dripping from her needles.

My mothers mother,
who could produce any object desired;
A hat with cat ears,
pink mittens with purple stripes
and once,
a pair of knit Mary-Janes for a favourite doll.

Now I knit with devotion and fervour
to save a part of them for myself.

But how I would have loved to have benefited from their

stitches in time,

purls of wisdom,

seeds of knowledge.