At times I forget I gave it away
to someone who’d make use of it, turn
all the irregular leftover corners
into useful work.

Then I go searching the high cupboards,
feeling for its squash of comfort,
wanting scraps to mend holes:
the best dress that has seen better days;
torn curtains letting in the dark;
a favourite cushion.

Remnants of remnants travelling with me,
waiting their time. Silk and Liberty print
wrapped against moth, keeping their colours
brilliant, unfaded.

Gone. Someone else fitting pattern to template,
making patchworks of weddings and christenings,
parties and holidays. Dolls’ clothes, perhaps,
or a quilt for someone too old to remember
why it ever mattered.

D. A. Prince

If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would like to hear from you.

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