unpicked ready for the day.
tried to convey joy, delight at
some where back before, some where
so badly spelled. fell on deaf eyes,
ears that cannot see some things.
it is the middle of some where,
one hour’s parking, no photographs
he watched me through a window high,
had set the looms some thirty years.
he understood the wool, the thread,
the wonder of it all.
he said some people like utter rubbish.
as do we.
yet this is another day.