Tapestry On The Green by Rosie Adamson Clark

A pencil line,
clear, bold straight,
across a clean sheet of paper,
that was the lay out of the village
green running rows,
once a year, a sports day,
The patchwork of ages and people
would come together,
community knitting,
purl, drop, back of the stitch,
as first the small children,
needling each other,
bobbed up and down in rough hewn
hessian sacks,
though some years the local
grain main would supply brown
paper ones, large enough for
the local Mill to fill with aromatic
white flour,
Then  eggs on spoons,
weaving in and out of the track,
fallen bodies and tears,
as cracked shells did not bounce,
back of the queue for the parents race,
my Mother, always my Mother,
would tie her skirt up in a side knot and dash,
weaving forward, in and out of the edges,
ragged threads of determination,
plimsolls leaving white trails on the grass,
as red faced, small round Ma
would collapse at the end,
doubled up with a stitch in her side.