Acquired on honeymoon in far distant lands,
Of spices, oranges & small grasping hands,
A rug woven with love & jeweled threads,
Moroccan gold, blues, jade & Arabian reds.
Love´s first passions spent upon sweet spun rug,
Gentle words of coming babe & soft gentle hug,
As we dreamed upon stitched exotic fruit & bird,
Only to us young lovers, our sacred vows heard.
Upon the rug, in burnished candle-lit copper tub,
On cold nights, by the fireside, the babes I´d scrub,
Then their squalling & crawling I would mop away,
Trying hard to keep coloured threads bright & gay.
The dogs that came, with heavy heads laid on paws,
Curled up rat-smelling cats with rug-sharpened claws,
All upon those silken, tasseled fabrics delicately woven,
No better home could that Moroccan rug have chosen.
Looking down now at toasty warmed stockinged toes,
At mopped-up soupy droplets upon old Moroccan rose,
Crumpled-crumbs, patches bare & old faded thread,
My old rug, now as grey as the fur on my old dog´s head.
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