Poem: When We Make Things

When the pig arrives I cannot stop
looking at her. It's more than just the way
she both delights and unnerves me -

her snout so realistic it could be breathing
the air alongside me, the glint in her eyes,
her little scalded trotters. And she is


more than the sum of her parts: cashmere,
mohair, cotton, her pinned joints, the petals
of her ears, a necklace of lace, a bell.

Of course, holding court in a vintage tea-cup
tends to lift you from the mundane to
the exceptional, but what moves me most

is the delicacy of care, the dexterity,
the kindess even, her maker has instilled
in each stitch, dimple and bristle.

When we make things, we send ourselves
out into the world, with love, with hope.

With thanks to the wonderful Brenda Turner, pig-maker (and maker of so much more) extraordinaire.