Longings

She’s darning, summer-open window wide
to the roses’ perfume stilling air inside;
she’s wafted back to other afternoons spent
doing the same, the boredom routine meant.

Not art, but graft, this cobbling of aging socks
and on and more it plods; it never stops,
no exploration, just one chore after another
knocking the life out of any working mother,

so where’s art now? No time for paint or ink.
Life’s all too much and makes the spirit sink;
it’s best to get on with cooking the evening meal
once the weaving’s finished on this pathetic heel.

The darning’s done, the perfume’s fading fast;
there’s something more creative to do, at last.