Laying Work by Philip Burton
When the sun quits
your corner, you smooth
your patterns out
with edge of hand
you log into the fire
embrace the lamp
demobilise the phone
and excuse us all
and you lay down
the last
needle
piercing a floral
sampler of laid-work, ready
as the day you went –
your only will and testament
I squint through the blunt eye,
recall you
skirmishing with cotton lengths
parched lips, back bent
ever composing yourself
to find
the argumentative thread's end
the needle is my mother's monument