I made it when my kids were small.
It lay on our queen-size bed
all the further years of that long marriage.
Not your neat, traditional crochet squares
but larger, lacier, the pattern
more complex. I was proud
of this persevering work of my hands:
a fine thing, a whole year to make.
I loved its rich, strong colours.
It was variegated green, emerald to sage.
It was two tones of red, intense
and understated. And the wide borders
were black. I thought they gleamed
with power and love. The top, defined
by wider black, turned back over the pillow.
After the marriage ended in tears,
I folded the quilt away in a cupboard ...
bundled it off at last to the charity shop.
What comfort could it be to my old age?
Rage had turned it ugly in my sight.
Grief had made it lie too heavy on me.
Now I live in a warm climate. I like
the Indian cotton throw I bought:
lighter, freer, matching my present love.
Published in Notes for the Translators: from 142 Australian and New Zealand Poets, ed. Christopher (Kit) Kelen. Macao, ASM, 2013
Intended for dVerse Poetics: Fabric of our lives — but I was too late. Check the link anyway, for a diversity of good poetry!
Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your posts as much as possible.