Clock Of Cloth

The Rhythm Of Stitching

Time drifting through a filter, 
Patches rough on mended scars, 
Fixing deep marks with softness, 
Erasing prickly danger. 

A grain of sand where we stand,
Soft peace in a wild flower,
Infinity in one hand,
The end starting to tower.

Wounds, with time as their ally,
Repairing human fabric,
Like a cool tailor's yardstick,
Few faces keep a dry eye.

Aged hours will soothe edges,
Tamed storms live in memories,
Mum wishes shape their pledges,
Patient wisdom to appease.

We're all unique tapestries,
History's constant changes,
Countless and silent queries,
All walking among strangers.