Wooden Mushrooms

Nestled at the bottom of the drawer

curled mouse-like in the corner

I found his old black sock,

darned at heel and toe.

As I lifted it out I remembered

our damp Adamsdown flat,

mildew creeping up skirting corners,

peeling grey wallpaper.

Huddling by the choking gas fire.

A wooden mushroom, polished

along its stem, scarred on top,

a long-ago gift 

from my great grandmother,

pushed up inside the sock.

Unmatched strands of wool

threaded through the thick needle

creating warp and weft 

to cover the worn holes.

Now time-poor and debt-rich

I discard old socks

never try to mend

holes caused by wear and tear.