Suzanne Edgar: Interwoven

for M.K.


It’s not a scarf I often dare to wear:

a little like some cleric’s stole, it hangs

red run through with gold, down the back

of my worn and rather faded blue armchair.


The scarf is never lent or even moved,

coming, as it did, from another world,

mailed by you as a special birthday gift

and murmuring in its folds that I was loved.


These winter days, in the arms of the old blue chair

I gather warmth from sunlight streaming in

through walls of glass; and settled, reading, there

I sense your quiet presence in bright air.

Suzanne Edgar

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