the stray thread of the granny squares

The granny squares are laid out across her knees,
Fluorescent and pastel in colour, a woven labour of love.
Comforting, soft, constant.

Colours and shapes move before her.
Murmuring and mumbling voices rise and fall around.

A small figure stands still before her,
She senses the tentative prickles of wonder,
The touch of a tiny hand,
As it strokes the patchwork squares and fiddles with a stray thread.
To little to strike up a conversation, yet a soft touch was all it took to connect.

Rheumy eyes sparkle, a thousand stories flicker behind
Crepe paper skin, translucent and blue.
Long and slender fingers, the imprint of many a handshake and touch still lingers.
Years of stories, of moments, of times long gone.
Mute, yet awash with expression she smiles at the small one before her.