The fleece hand-shorn by a sheepherder's hands

whose flock roamed these dreamy Lancashire lands.

At Lomeshaye Mill, the process began -

rolled into rovings, combed, carded, and dyed,

spun into wool, the fibres crossed lengthwise.

Sold at Nelson Market, a penny a yard

or a pound a ball, with a deep regard,

grandma knitted ours from a single yarn.

We all wore it, accepted it as ours,

a hand-me-down sweater we made our own.  

Insulating and warm, as snug as a home,

as big as a town, a garment we grew around.  

We took it to every street and the playground.

It grew as we grew like a boundary.

We tested limits, pulled threads to the foundry.

My father wore it to the sheet-metal factory.

Wild and free, my brother wore it on nights

to Equinox. My mother tore it to rags

whilst cleaning the Singer, and my sister

mimed and danced to Spice Girls in the mirror.

I wore it, too, its sleeves around my waist

like an embrace, or draped on my back,

arms over both my shoulders like a cape,

scrunched on the ground, a goalpost at play,

or a blanket on a warm Summer's day.  

It was passed down to friends and neighbours too,

who wore it through winters and made it through.

Made to endure, layered with care and love,

shared around this town like a little song,

a harmony where every voice belonged.

This is our sweater, frayed, bored with holes,

elbows patched from scrapes and stitched at the seams.

A tea-stained front mixed with whisky and cream.

But we’ve worn it well, to tatters and tears,

tallies and tales, we got some stories to tell.

Still, we keep the threads as they unravel

and restitch them new: a patchwork blanket

of everyone we knew - for those who travel

or decide to stay - an old hand-me-down

in the shades of our little Nelson Town.