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
