Swaying on the cracked
leather seat of the old red-rattler*,
clickety clacking along the Frankston Line,
knee to knee with
fellow passengers
trying awkwardly not to touch or intrude on their space.
Tedious, irritating commuting.
Then watching with
fascination, a garment growing.
Rhythmic knitting,
rhythmic swaying.
She’s untroubled with the jolting stops
and starts between stations.
Content in creating.
Bringing something
into being from a strand of yarn, unfurling from her bag.
Day after day I watched it grow.
Now, I too create and
often pause to watch in wonder the single strand of yarn evolving, impossibly, into
something new.
*a red rattler is a train which used to run on the Melbourne rail network. They were uncomfortable, the windows never seemed to close properly, but they had style!
A drabble is a story told in 100 words. No more. No less.
.
