Here is Buried Treasure indeed – a poem excavated from the files, a poem of secret knots, always the same red. Where do they belong? Our poet is Colin Hopkirk on this Day 653 of the daily poems.
At the Craft Table
always red wool
always the same red
somewhere between
wine and blood
she makes knots
long lines, sequences
used whole balls of wool
and I’m thinking artwork
can see them in a gallery
dozens of strands
red strands
hanging on white walls
which is nonsense
which is me projecting
missing the point
of her knots
that belong in a carrier bag
because that is where they live
of wine and blood
and what they mean
which is a secret
that she’ll never tell
Colin Hopkirk