My Mum knitted..

She watched television,

puffed on a Woodbine,

chatted about her bet

and the needles clicked

constantly.

“For the little, black babies”

she explained

as the multi coloured

T shaped garment emerged

beneath her needles.

Choosing her horses

was scientific.

If it had a nice name

she would put on a

shilling.

With Lester riding it

she would invest two bob.

Yeah, my mum knitted.

The product of earlier work

was on her head.

The tea cosy object

capped her shock of silver hair

with its nicotine flash

above the forehead

matched with a brown streak

across her fair isle hat.

If it was a pretty horse

with the right name

and Lester on board

she might risk ten bob.

These fine calculations

invariably outplayed

my Dad's balancing of

form, going, course, rider and odds.

The pile of identical

shape and size

'little black baby' jumpers

grew by the side of her chair.

The ashtray filled

on the other side.

Lester aged.

The clicking stopped.