In the round room, women gather to share,
Card womb word whispers into soft yarn,
Spun on willow bobbins, to be woven
On aerial looms into sacred shawls.
Like rows of crochet, deftly my words
Link to yours ‘til plaited into a cord,
Strong and binding, closely entwined,
All our hues of colour shining in one cloth.
We sew our shared stories into a quilt,
To give us comfort on dark nights,
To give us shelter from loneliness,
To reassure us we are all alike.
We stitch our patchwork tales together,
An enduring fabric more powerful
Than each story individually.
Each piece is a memory that binds us
To old dreams of childhood and of youth,
To the white of wedding dresses and rings,
To love, motherhood, joys and trials,
To our sweet, shared knowledge of how it is.
Perpetua Anne Graham
Omagh Northern Ireland