Friday 22 January 2016

Quilt Maker


My father could cut fabric with either hand
taking cognisance of grain, warp, weft and diagonal.
I remember newspaper triangular patterns.
His tailor’s chalk left white crosses in its wake.

He figured dimensions in his head, but cut
with precision - no strip or machine quilting then
when we cranked the handle that thrummed out blocks
each with its own story to tell.

He finger-pressed frocks and cast-offs that conjured up
memories - sharp and ephemeral the way scents do -
pin-stitched and back-stitched, summers pinioned.

He knew that if pulled along the diagonal
the fabric would stretch
as memories do now across the bed.

Copyright 2016 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved

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