(So many years ago. Certainly, love never dies. I wrote this 25 years ago.)
‘An old tablecloth in the linen cupboard brought the memories’.
Sadly, the years have taken their toll and that lovely tablecloth is no more. But the memory lives on.
Two weeks a year she came to stay,
A maiden lady, all alone.
The ‘Sally Army’ was her home,
A Hostel, down in Whitchapel.
She said it ‘did her very well’.
Her face was always pasty white,
My Nan said she was ‘not quite right,
A deficiency of sorts’, she’d say,
And then she’d turn her eyes away.
May’s hands seemed clumsy, pale and small,
Yet to me it mattered not at all:
For Auntie May had a talent rare
At needlework, beyond compare.
Her needle flashed, she’d smile and sing,
And flowers sprung on everything!
On tablecloths, and pillows too,
Satin roses bloomed and grew.
Her eyes shone brightly as she sewed,
And her pallid cheeks with roses glowed:
And as I sat there at her knee,
She passed on all she knew to me,
With Satin stitches, row on row,
I learned to make those flowers grow.
We worked together, May and I:
How we could make those needles fly!
A work of art, that’s what she said,
A tablecloth of linen thread,
With roses scattered everywhere,
A corner each, the work we’d share.
Each summer we both carried on,
Two weeks she came, and then was gone.
The cloth went with her, but I knew,
Next year, there’d still be work to do…
Until, one year I chanced to find
She’d gone home, leaving it behind.
Next summer came with not a word.
No card, no news of May was heard.
To Whitechapel we went in fear,
Dreading the words we knew we’d hear:
“Her health, youknow, was always poor,
I’m sorry, we could do no more”.
With heavy hearts, we left her there,
Mum, Nan and I, our grief to share.
Our memories of happy times
Would live forever in our minds,
The tears of laughter, gossip, fun -
She gave so much, to everyone.
In time, the work I carried on,
To make those roses bloom, alone,
With love sewn into every flower,
And thinking of her, every hour.
I still keep it, to this day:
And I remember Auntie May.
Poetry by Marie Cadavieco
Read 14 times
Written on 2026-07-11 at 17:15
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‘An old tablecloth in the linen cupboard brought the memories’.
Sadly, the years have taken their toll and that lovely tablecloth is no more. But the memory lives on.
Auntie May
I still remember Auntie May:Two weeks a year she came to stay,
A maiden lady, all alone.
The ‘Sally Army’ was her home,
A Hostel, down in Whitchapel.
She said it ‘did her very well’.
Her face was always pasty white,
My Nan said she was ‘not quite right,
A deficiency of sorts’, she’d say,
And then she’d turn her eyes away.
May’s hands seemed clumsy, pale and small,
Yet to me it mattered not at all:
For Auntie May had a talent rare
At needlework, beyond compare.
Her needle flashed, she’d smile and sing,
And flowers sprung on everything!
On tablecloths, and pillows too,
Satin roses bloomed and grew.
Her eyes shone brightly as she sewed,
And her pallid cheeks with roses glowed:
And as I sat there at her knee,
She passed on all she knew to me,
With Satin stitches, row on row,
I learned to make those flowers grow.
We worked together, May and I:
How we could make those needles fly!
A work of art, that’s what she said,
A tablecloth of linen thread,
With roses scattered everywhere,
A corner each, the work we’d share.
Each summer we both carried on,
Two weeks she came, and then was gone.
The cloth went with her, but I knew,
Next year, there’d still be work to do…
Until, one year I chanced to find
She’d gone home, leaving it behind.
Next summer came with not a word.
No card, no news of May was heard.
To Whitechapel we went in fear,
Dreading the words we knew we’d hear:
“Her health, youknow, was always poor,
I’m sorry, we could do no more”.
With heavy hearts, we left her there,
Mum, Nan and I, our grief to share.
Our memories of happy times
Would live forever in our minds,
The tears of laughter, gossip, fun -
She gave so much, to everyone.
In time, the work I carried on,
To make those roses bloom, alone,
With love sewn into every flower,
And thinking of her, every hour.
I still keep it, to this day:
And I remember Auntie May.
Poetry by Marie Cadavieco
Read 14 times
Written on 2026-07-11 at 17:15
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