Bit-Bag At times I forget I gave it away to someone who’d make use of it, turn all the irregular leftover corners into useful work. Then I go searching the high cupboards, feeling for its squash of comfort, wanting scraps to mend holes: the best dress that has seen better days; torn curtains letting in the dark; a favourite cushion. Remnants of remnants travelling with me, waiting their time. Silk and Liberty print wrapped against moth, keeping their colours brilliant, unfaded. Gone. Someone else fitting pattern to template, making patchworks of weddings and christenings, parties and holidays. Dolls’ clothes, perhaps, or a quilt for someone too old to remember why it ever mattered. D. A. Prince If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would like to hear from you.