Homespun
By Silver Spun Sand
- 4996 reads
I bury my face
in her pillow...
breathe her in;
still, her perfume
lingers, of musk
and of votives
burning till dawn...
take the roses
from their vase
from her room.
Job done now –
packed into bags
for the charity shops...
her shoes, frocks,
blouses and handbags,
but what to do
with her ‘little things’...
those intimate things
made of silk,
and of white,
blue, and pink
edged with ivory lace?
Lay them on her bed
like a quilt
of many colours –
made from scraps
of all her days...
months and years;
gather them up...
drive to the burn –
meanders
down the hillside...
watch wild jasmine
shed confetti
to the stream
to be borne away
on a warm,
forgiving,
southerly breeze.
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Comments
loved it! The idea of the
maisie Guess what? I'm still alive!
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Hi Tina, I have a funny
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Such sadness but I bet you
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You write these poems so
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I also love the imagery of
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Hi Tina, A truly beautiful
SteveM
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This poem really hit me in
barryj1
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One more thing: your
barryj1
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Coppard's earlier stuff is
barryj1
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You really do know how to
Rebecca
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