Kerrin P Sharpe

Sewing the world

my mother’s head
was full of stitches
she waited in the 
deep forest as featherstitch
with other small birds

here she sang rickrack and 
braided herring bone rivers
here she used chain stitch to
grow mountains here she sat
weaving stitch wheel oceans
to roll out waves

but there are white gaps
between smocking pirie street
and the cross-stitched church
where she married

if I follow the
red wool down woodwood 
street it appears as
running stitch in the 
napier earthquake 

her hat shops are only
tacked to pavements there
is a ladder watching
her needles unsure of 
what she remembered 

the tram goes home alone

Author’s Note


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