I like to think that the faint

click-clack of the needles

is a sound passed through generations,

passed along with the cries of labour,

the silent frustrated scream,

the harmonious soprano laughter.

An audible backdrop, a constant hum

amid the ongoing cacophony of history. 
It was there – that clacking –

along with the sound of the guillotine’s drop,

as women watched organised horror

without dropping a stitch.

Not so much a demonstration

of cruelty

but of a hard-won art,

the need to form perfect stitches

in any condition.
In the present day, I am not

driven by cold to hook fingers,

gnarled and work-worn

around the needles, coming away

from the grasp with hands

bent in perpetual claws.

Were my stitches to be unspooled,

no secret codes would emerge,

knotted with grim determination

into the wool, knitted

back into place.
But the soundtrack remains,

as does the cacophony.

We still bear witness

and continue. 
They call us monsters,

which is to say,

they fear

the hands that remain steady

in the face of violence,

the sharp pull of the wool,

the thrust of the needle,

the gentle, unerring

clack.