Jun. 21, 2021

Mamo's Haboo

Old friend you welcome me into your room
present me with a crocheted shawl, consolation
after my long stay in a hospital ward.

You call this gift Haboo, your name
for the childhood comforter you held close
when you felt fearful or alone.

I hold it in my arms, colours like flowers
form lines: baby pink, scarlet, sparkling blue,
light yellow centre, trace these tracks

find love in the weaving, happiness
in receiving, reassurance, cast aside care
when I wrap it around my shoulders.

I bury my face in the shawl
savour the feel of soft wool.

Rosy Wilson

Latest comments

25.11 | 22:15

Grief is experience through the mundane. Simple but powerful. The accompanying image really compliments the poem.

07.11 | 11:14

Hi Peter,

A great observation! Social media can be a scary place... I also need to reduce my time there



06.11 | 16:24

A great one, Peter, in the context you describe. I don't read social media myself, I doubt my equilibrium could stand it. 'The balance of his mind disturbed' yes, I think it would be.

06.11 | 15:59

Yes, gossip is a weapon of mass destruction.

In my business as well as personal life I have zero tolerance.

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