A last burst of colour before everything fades into dullness and before the dreariness of a northern winter sets in…
hot November trees:
blazing rockets burning out—
Words and image © Lizzie Ballagher
Unravelling muddles isn’t always good, and sometimes the memories are as sharp as the hat-pins of a previous blog. Equally, though, there are corners full of colour and joyful remembrance…
My Mother’s Book of Hours: Novena
This box, I tell you—with all its forlorn jumble-jangle of bright stuff,
Its tangled pick-up-sticks of hooks & needles,
Of buckles & bangles & dancing-skirt spangles,
Of patchwork pieces—is all yours now.
No longer shall I calculate with frayed measuring tape
(It lies, for sure);
Or cut with rusting shears,
Or mend with reels or spools or bobbins
From this box.
No longer shall I read my mother’s Book of Hours—
This needlebook bibled in downy blue felt.
© Lizzie Ballagher