A stitch in time
for Toby
 
My nephew catches my eye
a question perched upon his ruffled brow
 
“Do you sew patches on your jeans because...”
 
His voice trails off...
 
(it’s not like him to censor what he says)
 
I follow his silent train of thoughts as it splits onto
parallel tracks:
 
(a) you think they look cool
(fuck, it’d be cruel to tell him otherwise)
 
(b) you can’t afford new jeans
(fuck, that’d be embarrassing)
 
(c) Today
threading a line of blue cotton
through the receptive eye of my favourite needle
in order to darn another year into my favourite winter hat
mum’s old Quality Street sewing box by my side
I recall his unfinished question
and my quantum-collapsing reply:
 
“I’m a hippie.”
 
He paused
then grinned
as the penny dropped
even deeper:
 
“You really are a fucking hippie!”
 
I pocketed our conversation
 
Some day, perhaps, I’d embroider it as a poem
which I’d send to him with unclish love
to make him grin
once more
 
I finish my haphazard work
snip the thread
put scissors and cotton and needle back inside their tin
and then
with frugal satisfaction
I place the mended hat upon my head
as happy as any newly-crowned king
 
(I really am a fucking hippie)