Knitted Socks

Between her snoozes and sneezes,
she’d knit me through her coughs and wheezes,
imagining, mouth half-opened, eyes half-closed,
how I’ll keep you warm - enclosing your feet and toes.

She always knitted by the fire, where the strings glittered
like the telephone rings she no longer really hears.
And the Christmas tree would shimmer too,
green and bright, amongst old paintings water-blue
(for she still loved the ocean, you see,
when it roars so gently in the breeze).

Then the knocks on the door and the voices came
and went blurting a blur and frenzy of names.
She thought maybe, just maybe, she heard “Granny”
as you were dragged in and out, and in again by your many
many children, and Granny's mouth opened a little further.