Storyboards, Illustrations, Music Videos, London, UK
She was knitting on the Underground,
a few seats away to my right,
darkly reflected in the glass opposite.
But she was not.
I’m no expert, but I suppose knitting is like rowing
upstream with two oars;
she was crocheting, a one-paddle canoe,
hooking with a small plastic tool formed like a fish gaffe,
reeling out the yarn from the ball on her lap.
She rummages in the see-through belly of the air
like a miracle surgeon, manipulating and mending with a flourish,
tying things together to restore cause and effect.
Curious, I glance sideways at the young woman.
On her lap is a printed sheet from the internet,
an instructional page of crochet knots, loops, rows, chains, charts,
like glyphs and symbols transcribed from a temple wall,
It tells her
how to make a bedspread to warm a child,
a shawl to throw over a mother’s shoulders,
a braided cord strong enough to support
her son on that mountainside,
how to knot
how to close the spaces.
Her shifting fingers hold everything in
an intermediate stage,
a cat’s cradle of unassembled string,
the dashing flight patterns of swifts,
eventually a shape holding its shape by holding itself.
As we travel through the tunnels
I envisage after-images of her work hanging in the air
like the phosphorescent intestinal glow of deep sea creatures,
the ghost calcium of past states.