She walks, and if
A small piece of her soul was missing,
Isn’t that always the way?
In darkness the soul stitcher worked,
Piecing the remnants together with silk thread,
A stitch at a time.
And all that remained of her soul was purest gold.
Meanwhile the gold souls of birds are also a work in progress.
These are the remnants of the leaf left when gilding. And often I have sold off small piece by auction, to help raise money for charities, for crowdfunders. But now at last I have found ways to stitch and they are seeding new ideas, working images and words in tattered fragments of fragile things.
And if the one who walks is perhaps a ghost then she is more like the ghosts I have seen. Not a fan of the cult for dystopia, I seek out beauty. Appalled by the zombie films I know that treating dead in such a way dishonours us all. for those who are dead are not to be feared, but remembered, with love, with honour. Like the gold souls the memories build in our minds.
The kindness of ghosts.
I can feel a new exhibition coming on.
Meanwhile I have the moongold soul of a bluebell, stitched onto the wordpress of the Lost Words spell written by Robert Macfarlane.
And I have a draw that contains sleeping golden souls.