CHILD LABOUR
Mum sews triangles of satin,
hundreds, thousands,
inserts for blue bathing trunks,
pure white gussets
which will flap around men's thighs
when they enter the water –
piecework.
She has a system running.
When she readies the stack
to hem the first edge,
it is time.
I crouch under the sewing cabinet,
bare knees on lino,
scissors in hand.
Mum turns the hem,
slides it between needle and plate,
retracts her fingers, under it goes,
does not sever the twist of threads,
lets it run on, for me,
reaches for the next piece, under it goes,
then the next.
I always do it right,
the next piece, I have to,
next, next. The treadle surges,
amidst the roar, the next piece,
I watch the trail of bunting
reach into the dark beneath waxed wood,
stream down,
like a parade of sail, a regatta
buoyed upon royal blue trimmings.
Clear of sight,
I snip the next piece,
separate each sail,
with precision
rebuild the pile of gussets.
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