Reverently I touch the bedspread of old crochet
Spread upon my bed with it’s design so lovely and gay
Fashioned by dear Grandmother who has long since passed away.
There’s no master design and nothing has it portrayed
Of historic scene or landscape. It was made
By Grandmother’s fingers in crochet stitches fine
And speaks of old world loveliness, to me and mine.
Oh Grandmother, you had such a patient skill
Of swift, sure fingers now forever still!
In the evenings after a long, busy day
She would sink into her rocking chair with a happy sigh
And scan a pattern with a practiced eye.
Then she would begin to smile and lose her tired look
As she began to ply her shining silver, magical hook.
I would sit at her knee and watch as the stitches grew
And the snowy birds and little flowers came into view.
Its colour is rather faded now, but lovelier I have never seen
Than when, brand new so long ago, it glistened with a sheen.
I touch the old lace and feel a presence in the room
There’s a clinging lavender fragrance like a vague perfume
Grandmother seems but only a few stitches away
For a vital spark yet lingers in her beloved crochet.
I wonder, dear Grandmother, up there, do you still say
“Guess I’ll sit awhile and do a bit of crochet”?
In this modern world so far from the old world you knew
I know how you felt and what your dreams were
For I have learned crocheting too!
My Mandela so far……. My Mum would be so proud !