Poem of the day

The Lady With The Sewing-Machine

Across the fields as green as spinach,

Cropped as close as Time to Greenwich,

Stands a high house; if at all,

Spring comes like a Paisley shawl — 

Patternings meticulous

And youthfully ridiculous.

In each room the yellow sun

Shakes like a canary, run

On run, roulade, and watery trill — 

Yellow, meaningless, and shrill.

Face as white as any clock's,

Cased in parsley-dark curled locks — 

All day long you sit and sew,

Stitch life down for fear it grow,

Stitch life down for fear we guess

At the hidden ugliness.

Dusty voice that throbs with heat,

Hoping with your steel-thin beat

To put stitches in my mind,

Make it tidy, make it kind,

You shall not: I'll keep it free

Though you turn earth, sky and sea

To a patchwork quilt to keep

Your mind snug and warm in sleep! 

Edith Sitwell