“If you had everything there’d be nothing
To look forward to”, said my arty-crafty friend
So adept at turning nothings into something.
Stuck or stitched, pulled or painted she’d bend
The material world to her will. Second lives
Given to glass and glitter, forgotten remnants
Scavenged from charity shops, and sales on drives
Became unrecognisable, with no resemblance
To their found selves. And she was like that
With people too, life’s invisible walking wounded
She’d help to heal themselves, lives gone flat
With a word and a touch were reinflated, and rebounded.
“If I had everything, I’d never find anything”, I essayed.
“I’m hopeless when decisions must be made”.
“The stuff you really need to find finds you”, was all she said.
And rotating her rollator, off she sped.
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Stephen A. Linstead
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