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.