to get on with making a loom,
of all things, at the back
of the greenhouse,
on a weathered old table,
far gone in the mortice.

Still, it could be judged laudable,
in the shabby Yorkshire forties;
to dream weaving a bedspread,
curtains - straightforward,
or mufflers - elementary.

It took years
to warp my Dad
lastly into mostly bone,
a few loose teeth, bald head,
a pair of darkening eyes.

I remember much trouble
with shuttle or heddle,
and our sorry handiwork
wedged under my bed,
dismembered at last
for plywood or dowel.