Wooden and stolid,
my granny’s sewing reels were wrapped in jewelled silks,
the loose ends neatly nipped into their nicked rims,
faded paper labels defining strength and shade.

We rolled the empties drunkenly under her velour-hidden table;
made them into tanks with matches and elastic,
or clanking snakes with pingpong heads.
Four nails and wool knitted ropes through their centres;
the play-clattered edges snagged against coarseness,
a last protest.

Where are they,
her smoothed
silks?