I wear
your grey
woollen mittens,
the ones


you can make
into gloves
by pulling over
the fingers


to make complete;
soft, thick,
but warm; neat.
I can sense you near


with them on;
an imaginary pulse
moves along
beside mine.


You felt the cold;
although didn't say
as such
or not


over much;
your hands
and fingers
seeking shelter


within the wool,
rubbing against
the fibre, skin
on softness,


warmth like
a kind of drug,
seeping in.
I wear your grey


woollen mittens,
my fingers fitting
where yours once did,
the feel of you


in the wool's soft memory;
the fibre’s hold,
keeping you warm,
my son,


keeping to warm
against the cold.
The mittens seem fresh;
not worn thin or aged


or coming unwoven
as some things do.
I wear your grey mittens,
have them close,


neat and touching.
I wish they were you.

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