always red wool
always the same red
somewhere between wine and blood
she makes knots
long lines, sequences
whole balls of wool
and I'm thinking artwork
can see them in a gallery
dozens of strands
red strands
hanging on white walls
which is nonsense
which is me projecting
missing the point of her knots
that belong in a carrier bag
because that is where they live
of wine and blood
and what they mean
which is a secret
that she cannot tell
Published by colinhopkirk
Poet, writer, artist. Writing and performing in England, publishing anywhere. Member of Hexameter performing poets. Workshops, projects, cross-arts collaborations.
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Colin Hopkirk Poetry 