Con Connell


Harvest Time: A Needlework Map - Poem by Con Connell

Our village holds no special place
In history. Its public face
Would cause no traveller to pause,
Its landscape merits no applause.

We love it though. And love declares
Its memories, in patchwork squares,
And fabric images that bind
The heritage we leave behind.
Each public, private, thought portrayed,
Each delicately appliquéd.

We stretch our memories on frames,
Without exaggerated claims,
Knowing each proud biography
Embroiders our geography.
This warning, too, our needles know,
That as we reap, so shall we sew.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, December 14, 2006

Poem Edited: Thursday, December 9, 2010


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