It is days since the glove

turned up on the fence, 

placed there by some 

kind passer-by.

A crooked finger points

at the clouds, the empty

thumb flops down.

Once, its threads were

soaked in Pennine mist.

They were shorn with

heavy shears in a shed

on a valley farm.

They were spun in a

factory by a woman

who loved soap operas.

They were shaped

by a girl with many

mouths to feed.

The glove and its mate 

sailed the ocean on a 

ship with a happy crew.

And they were sold

from a stall to a woman

who was careless.

Now, both gloves

are useless.


The odd couple sit at a 

table drinking wine. He

points at the sky, and talks.

She takes a long drag

on a thin cigarette, 

and remembers her days

as a dancer.