Patchwork

She wore  a medieval patchwork dress,

honest and unpretentious,

its shapes and colours appeared to be random

with squares and triangles, stripes and stitches,

silks and gingham, checks and flowers,

all recycled treasure, a respected art from a byegone day.

She chose this dress for her wedding  on

a Full Moon day, a forget-me-not day,

a kaleidoscope day when anything seemed possible,

when even a rainbow might pale into insignificance.

She refused to wear white,

no earthy muted shades for her either;

instead she wore her joy like Joseph’s coat in a a riot of colours,

sexy scarlet, forest green, lapis lazuli and robins egg blue.

She wore a wreath of cornflowers in her hair.

She held a patchwork of flowers close to her heart:

bluebells, anemones, peonies and violets

lightly laced with scented herbs, criss-crossed with ivy for eternity,

all gathered from the meadow which was

part of a patchwork of greens, yellows and gold.

They met upon the mountain with their friends and kin.

Their hands fastened with patchwork ribbons

they leapt over the fire and later

when they lay down  on their marriage bed,

they kissed and pledged their love,

Casting aside the patchwork quilt

which would become their heirloom from this day,

he teased her in his very special way.

We need nothing but our love, my sweet soulmate,

you are my patchwork coverlet,

we are betrothed, we overlap,

we have now become as one,

.

Cait O’Connor