In fountain pen, on parchment torn, a note, words crystallising and pure,
“Weave a scarf about my heartland, the only place I feel at home, weave about the way my father works until the daylight’s done, weave the rain on the roof on a summer night and the smell of the crops, the harvest delight, weave scones in the oven, sweet preserves filling jars, lying in the paddock beneath a million stars. Weave a scarf about my heartland. Weave a scarf about my life.”
Each scarf we weave, we picture your life and ours. Fresh strawberries straight from the vegetable patch, a first kiss, old friends, that wild horse that couldn’t be tamed, passionfruit icing on grandma’s sponge. Your life, ours, worlds colliding in the weave.
