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I happened to be wearing them
that Sunday morning, news of Ukraine
bleeding from the radio as I left the house
to join neighbours at our local attraction —
the red coffee van, a new heart beat
drawing us together, a constant trickle
for an hour or so along the village arteries — life
after the virus opening up, the aroma
of freshly ground beans teasing our nostrils
in the frosted air;
and there, in the car park, our ankles fringed
by snowdrops — my gloves are admired
for their intricate pattern, Fair Isle style,
with a Tatar touch, egg-shell blue, green
and yellow, ‘Spring colours to lift our spirits,’
someone says, and I remind her
of the Russian woman who lived for a while
over the hill, became my friend,
and made them for me, deft fingers
flicking wool between needles’ click,
those supple, expert hands I know so well,
and often think of in everything they do;
and then a man says it — casts a tiny grenade
into the morning: ‘So they’ll be for the bin,
won’t they!’ and a small cloud of hatred hangs
in the soured air.
Gerda Stevenson is an award-winning Scottish writer, actor, theatre director, playwright, singer-songwriter. Her poetry collections include If This Were Real (Smokestack, 2013), Quines: Poems in Tribute to Women of Scotland (Luath, 2018/200), Tomorrow’s Feast (Luath, 2023) from which Russian Gloves is taken.
Poetry submissions to thursdaypoem@gmail.
