Here it is. Last one to post on here, but first to be written. Now all I have to do is write a commentary on my creative process.

She sits and knits her lonely hours along,    

Or stitches pictures of a curling  world

Where ivy weaves and winds round swirling whorls

Of roses, and the humming birds just hang.

The cuckoo in his castle on the wall                          

Awaits his hour, then mockingly he springs

Into her hopeful dreaming, and she thinks,

For seconds, visitors have rung the bell.

 One day, she won’t feel well enough to wind

The cuckoo up. She’ll set the sewing down

And wait and listen to her heart beat strain

And tick her life away. She cannot mend.

And bottles on the doorstep in a row

Accuse the neighbours that it’s too late now.