Sole Survivor
 
The fine point of a needle
finds a hole to stitch again.
Black thread upon black shoe,
a weave against the raindrops
as I try to walk between them.
 
Mary Jane’s, now mine, once hers
cold shoes cradling colder skin
glimpsing heaven from a hospice bed.
Feather breath grasped by a weary heart
pulling needle-fine draughts from corridors
to the whispering of waiting sins,
their patience smoking for a reward.
 
Her old shoes were the stones
dropped for velour’s velvet lift,
revived as I brush back and forth,
brushing old days into new
to last longer than she did.

Susan Wilson

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Susan Wilson  would be pleased to hear them