Mending

That small hole in your sweater? Moth, perhaps;
best check the others, folded in the drawer.
A stitch in time, et cetera. No Apps
can match what needles, pins and threads are for.
We are of Pooter’s tribe: a nail, a screw,
something to fix a wobbly, misplaced shelf.
We make, we mend on autopilot––‘new’
is alien to perception of our ‘self’.
Our Zen is patching what’s already there
and as our stuff is old, a full-time task.
It’s done with love, a lifetime’s skill and care.
If it’s beyond us, we have friends to ask.
   We’re busy folk, always too much to mend
   and only death will bring this to an end.

D A Prince


If you have any thoughts on this poem,  D.A. Prince   would be pleased to hear them.