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My Granny has a sewing box.It isn’t much to see.Except when you peek insidethe 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 withwhatever she puts her mind to.
From fabric scraps grow giant quiltsto snuggle while in bed.She can make anythingwith just a needle and thread.
Knitted cardigans, crochet toys,you’ll never be dismayed.Every present from my Grannyis always a memory made.
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