Exceptional Her initials are all that is left to mark her passing. Thoughts on an Antique Quilt by Cass Carlton

A sun warmed day to visit a house Where folk once lived year round Their children played upon the lawn I could almost hear the sound. The house seemed still and waiting As I visited each room. I thought they might be hiding And laughing in the gloom. The flowers out in tended plots Were what my garden grew Roses, daisies and lavender And pansies purple and blue. Some one sat here long ago Plying her needle and thread Stitching the silken quilt that lies Upon this antique bed. Voice and hands long ago stilled As fingers grew stiff and slow But quilt remains her testament Of those days long ago. Forgotten now, her name unknown But in claim of what she did Within the lovely silken folds Are her initials, carefully hid. Recognized Author Notes This poem was inspired by another piece I wrote many years ago after a visit to Old Government House in Belair National Park. The house is set up exactly as it was when the Governor of South Australia brought his family away from the heat of Adelaide down on the plains to the cool of the Mount Lofty ranges behind the city where the Summer Residence was built. The room containing the quilt was very quiet the day I was there. Beside the big bed stood a little cot with a baby's nightgown laid over the dainty little quilt made of small squares in soft pastel colours. There were little shoes and an equally small jacket on a child's chair by the window that looked as though they had just been taken off and left there by some one who would be back any minute for them. What really freaked me out was the sewing basket and the threaded needle in a reel of cotton left on the bedside table. Wheeyoo! Spookieee!

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