Cinderella is knitting a woollen sock
In her kitchen defeated by grime.
In the pantry, the mice are running amok.
Cinderella is keeping an eye on the clock.
She is dreading the midnight chime.
Cinderella is thinking about the dress
She suspects she has worn to a ball.
It is faded and frayed but impeccably pressed.
On display in the ballroom, it makes her distressed:
Why it's special she can't recall.
In this baffling age, every single thing
Is inane like a pumpkin coach,
And her voice that inspired all birds to sing
Has become as dull as her wedding ring.
But her socks are beyond reproach:
They are comfy and warm - not designed to stun
But ideal for the palace chill.
Just a couple of rows - and the sock is done.
When she tries it on, she'll be second to none.
She can feel the familiar thrill.
In the morning she'll find the sock on the stairs
And she won't be surprised, not a bit.
Cinderella's asleep in her knitting chair.
She has drawers full of socks: every single pair
Is a magically perfect fit.
Old Woman Knitting, Patricia Preece, 1937