A friend tells me she has a thimble made of brick, for Anne. by Ros Woolner


I picture something red and rough
as a chimney pot, big enough

to fit a giant’s finger, worn
perhaps by the Tailor of Tettenhall,

the one who sewed the ten-yard seam
of coal, who patched the greens

with daffodils, stitched pockets
in the sandstone rock,

hemmed the cut with hawthorn, put
a zip in for the Smestow Brook,

tacked white lines between the lanes
of local roads and then one day

mislaid his favourite thimble and, in a strop,
pulled a bunch of loose threads

together outside Birmingham
and tied them in a knot.


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