Featured Poem


I do.

Your threads hold me, pull me into

                           your worsted weave. I hear 

                           your shuttle song, the treadle-beat,

verse after verse, wooing me.

I stretch my arms across your frame’s

                          embrace, touch my bridal dress

                          of wool, teased and spun on bobbins

that feed your hungry clatter.

Skeins of silk twist light within

                          its length. I measure your devotion

                          with my hands: my palms’ span, 

the inches of my thumbs.

Salt’s Mill beside the Aire will be

                         our church, the weir our witness.

                         I’ll wear your ring of yarn, pledge

myself to you, my loom, my love.

I do.

This poem won 3rd prize at the Saltaire Festival Poetry competition 2019