Knitting on The Frankston Line

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.

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