Saturday, October 8, 2011


(A poem by Thomas Hardy)

I am the family face
Flesh perishes, I live on

Projecting trait and trace
Through time to times anon,

And leaping from place to place

Over oblivion

The years-heired feature that can
In curve and voice and eye

Despise the human span
Of durance - that is I,

The eternal thing in man

That heeds no call...

.... to die


My Ouma's doilies 
Hand made with care when eyesight was stronger
Tiny stitches of love and patience
Weaved within and without

I said good bye to her 
Long before I began to stitch and sew
I wonder now.... does she look on and know?

As we ladies make
Do we not create for those who can't?
Are we stitching and painting and writing for the angels?


chasing lightning bugs said...

oh you lovely woman.....i think your last sentence is perfection. i think of my grandmother every day as i sew...stitching for the angels. she made me quilts that i didn't appreciate until after she was gone. and she left a handmade wedding gift that my grandfather gave me 3 years after her death. thank you for this loveliness.

Florawood said...

Just beautiful....i have the gardening gift from my Mum who passed far too young...i often think about her when im in the garden and sharing with my little girl what she taught me xx