Megan Slade

The sound of sewing machines

Trickles of rain
Slowly racing down
The window
I make a guess
At which drop will win
Some join onto others
and fall faster
Maybe this is cheating
But I’ve always turned a blind eye

My mother arranges herself
Foot ready, waiting
On the pedal

She has been gathering scraps and
Threads for a while now
To turn into masterpieces
A tomboy like me
Will never wear

I colour out of the lines
But she still tells me it’s beautiful
Without her even looking
Instead her eyes glisten as
The first seem has been made

The whirl of this machine
Sings a duet
With the falling rain

It’s just another Sunday.