by Gracie May Bawden
Home-Made Christmas
Morning hasn't even settled
Midnight sediment scattered through
The grey beasts that
Sail the sky
But Mother rocks the landing floorboards
And I follow
Downstairs
Families of dollymix, gingham, polkadot
Huddle in cool swirls
Cotton roses climbing the kitchen table
I sit and silently snip shapes
Press my early-hour imagination
Shallow into fabric
Triangular like chemistry
But tired at the edges
My mother lifts a needle
And creates
As mothers do
And I watch her
Lovingly piece Christmas together
Beaded purses, lace angels and silk tress
They are her children now
I can see it in her smile
Full like cinnamon
And red like blood
We pack our morning into hidden bags and boxes
And slip back to bed
Sleeping for an hour or two
Proud owls tucked in nests.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
My name is Gracie Bawden and I live in Cornwall, England. This beautiful place has been an inspiration to me ever since I started writing, at about the age of nine. Nothing has changed. I doubt it ever will.
Last updated September 16, 2011