In autumn she starts to knit wee woolens
for her kittens and canaries, the mice in her kitchen,
any bird or small beast that couldn’t flee the winter
and had to seek shelter in her garden;
the age mellowed rafters of her cottage.

In winter all the creatures line up
before her basket overflowing with muffs,
mittens, caps and coats. Throughout the run
of hail and snow she keeps them warm and fat. And
her home is a picture of Christmas cheer.

In spring she is ready to pick the old wool clean,
sweep out her house, beat the carpets, and hang up
her washing. In spring she chooses bulbs and seeds
from mail order catalogues carefully
before she plants her summer garden.

In summer she is the goddess of bounty. The ones
that had flown, hopped, ambled or crawled away,
now return. They return. Pay homage. They exchange
notes with their brethren and those that remained
and still managed to survive.

They gather in the summer to eat her sweet peas
and carrots. Prod the soil for soft things. They raid
her chicken coups for eggs. They leave
behind their offerings – the sights and sounds
and smells of an awakening world.

When dusk falls they retreat. The knitting takes over.
Not with refreshed old wool, but with the stories that fell
and collected. The ones that refused to be swept out. The ones
that clung to the roots of cobwebs, the edges of nail heads
hammered flat into her floor boards.
Her walls start to glow and shimmer with strange tapestries.
She watches out for stories that spin and knot.

Her round spectacles fog up in the steam of her tea. The pot
over the fire bubbles and spits. Her canaries shed
their black feathers and grow fresh yellow ones.
The smoke rises from her chimney
with enticing signals. Many children
lose their way to their grandmothers’ homes
in the forest, never to be seen again.
Long after

The hopes in parental hearts have sunk
into bitter sleep, the souls of the children
start to sing. The songs shine through the eyes
of the snowmen in winter and flutter
in the scarves on their snowy necks

That she had knitted in the autumn
that she filled with stories that she spun
in summer that she gathered
from the fauna that returned
in the spring after they’d fled her winter.