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My Granny has a sewing box.

It isn’t much to see.

Except when you peek inside

the nostalgia calls to me.


Buttons of every colour.

Like sweets, shiny and bright.

A rainbow of threads,

wound on to their spools, tight.


Ribbons and trimmings,

broderie and lace.

Everything packed tightly,

               there isn’t that much space.              


Soft balls of wool,

she can knit for hours at a time.

Her needles going clickety clack,

beating out a rhyme.

Snippets of fabric,

stashed from projects past.

Not a scrap to be wasted,

every bit used until the last.


The memories aren’t just inside the box,

it’s something Granny can do.

She can make anything with

whatever she puts her mind to.


From fabric scraps grow giant quilts

to snuggle while in bed.

She can make anything

with just a needle and thread.


Knitted cardigans, crochet toys,

you’ll never be dismayed.

Every present from my Granny

 is always a memory made.

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