Are you too frayed - both senses here -
beyond repair, just one of more?
What looms as stains bloom where we walk,
mats lined, dust beaten, strung along,
or even damp, hung out to dry,
those carpet baggers, cleaning up,
The warp and weft, past stories spun
unravel, as torn edges worn,
earth, air, fire, water close at hand,
invading homes, laid by the hearth.
Or do we still swear second hand,
just fairy tales, well-worn, ignored,
our fake news faces, on our sleeve -
as rug pulled out from under souls;
trip hazard now beneath our feet,
revealed, no longer under brushed?
But what are tassels, what is frayed -
perhaps those pinking shears in play -
or maybe view, rose-tinted lens,
to obviate need needle, thread?
A timely stitch saves all cat’s lives
but we may let sleeping dogs lie.
A tasseled shawl for some a prayer,
for others mat must point the way;
but fate, all faiths, lies at the door -
no cover up can varnish facts.

Stephen Kingsnorth


Stephen Kingsnorth, retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church with Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, most recently Poetry Potion, Ariel Chart, The Parliament Literary Journal, Ink Sweat and Tears, Visual Verse.

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