Poem: When We Make Things

When the pig arrives I cannot stoplooking at her. It's more than just the wayshe both delights and unnerves me -
her snout so realistic it could be breathingthe 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 petalsof her ears, a necklace of lace, a bell.
Of course, holding court in a vintage tea-cuptends to lift you from the mundane tothe exceptional, but what moves me most
is the delicacy of care, the dexterity,the kindess even, her maker has instilledin each stitch, dimple and bristle.
When we make things, we send ourselvesout into the world, with love, with hope.
With thanks to the wonderful Brenda Turner, pig-maker (and maker of so much more) extraordinaire.