making

After ‘Digging’ by Seamus Heaney

In the corner of my desk lie scraps of paper.

I tuck them away in the old sewing basket.

My grandmother could sew anything from a salvaged

yard of cloth. A glance at a picture of a frock

in a magazine held up by one of her girls –

in a morning she’d have it made. No pattern,

just kitchen table skill, a mind quick with the maths

of straight lines, curves and darts, her eyes

sharp as the slice of her scissors on chalked

lines, sending tiny clouds into the air. My mother,

tape measure round her neck, ends swinging,

a meter of fabric before her, in her hand the good

scissors, bottom blade gliding over the laminex,

top blade cutting round the tissue-paper edges

of the pattern we picked out from the shop

down the street. The old sewing basket is full now,

scraps of paper spill over the brim, words and lines

that pop into my head at work, on the train,

on the bus, on weekends, scribbled fast

before they fade. I’ll make with them.