This is a poem about having to let go of something you know you will really miss.
Mustard coloured and worn,
hanging on a peg by the back door,
your tattered comfort has seen
us through the years’ chills.
Retrieving chives from the garden,
nipping out, arms laden with re-cycling,
scampering to gather logs
for a winter blaze.
Too tattered to take out dancing,
too old to grace the winter shows,
you quietly accept the substitute’s role
uncomplaining and, until now, constant.
This further snag though, may be the last
as your reliable threads unravel,
at a speed with which
only the ever present
are free to vanish.