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Tuesday, 9 August 2011


I would stand like a fisherman
with my hands positioned as if to clap.
My mother used me as a static tool
to help her turn bundles into balls of wool.

She had quick movements like a magician's
and tutted as the wool snagged on my thumbs.
"Not my fault, this boring job. Not my choice,"
came the silent whinge from my inner voice.

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