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Her Poetry
Her soft, warm voice soothed me
at 4 years old, as she sat knitting,
reading out loud the poetry
I so loved to hear.
Her agile fingers clicking needles,
her eyes darting from page to pattern,
reading Wordsworth or Keats,
softly with feeling.
At 4 years old she was my world,
my goddess and I was the mischief
who searched for the stitches she ‘dropped'
on our living room floor.
Only in dreams do I hear her voice now,
only in dreams do the words drift over me
and the woollens she'd knit
still sit behind the wardrobe door.
poem
by
Ruth Walters
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