Poem about the Repair Cafe in West Watford

​The Repair Café
 
We sit sewing round the table,
String lively conversation.
Our hands draw patterns in the air.
And feel fabric texture as we share.
 
When we sew, we work together.
The cotton wraps around and keeps us close.
Our fingers press stitches in and out,
Comfort rhythm, easing fears and doubt.
 
Tying a knot, mending a tear,
Then reach to grab the scissor.
‘Pass the thread, does this match the blue?’
‘Yes, it fits it true.’
 
In and out our fingers work,
Like bees flying to a flower pocket.
They search around and dip for nectar,
Diving into fabrics, like a pollinator.
 
Our fingers know their purpose,
And we ride upon their tails.
Chit chat to and fro,
And laughter whilst we sew.
 
‘Oops! I’ve dropped my needle, where’s it gone?’
Then someone offers tea and slice of cake.
Here’s a place that defies convention,
Where old and broken things find kind attention.
 
Sit back, take in the room and sense the vulnerability,
Thoughtfully, tenderly met, with kindness and generosity.
I get back on track and sew my strong repair,
A simple thing, to show I care.