Quilt
The October sun breeds
cataracts and the breeze
freezes my bones.
My neck is wool-deep in check
and it’s hard to text
with mittens on.
It’s not been this bright in weeks
the glow shows glitter
in rows up the street.
The morning, like a hot drink
in a cold glass means the nights
are drawing in.
We’ll pull my blanket to the bed.
It is patchwork.
It is made from destroyed dresses.
I envisage one,
black with small blue birds.
Their feathers shake
with the chill of my house
their beaks are a hurried applause.
Cara Brennan is 22 and is on the Creative Writing MA at Newcastle University. She is part of The Writing Squad, has read at Ilkley Lit Festival and will have a pamphlet coming out in September with Valley Press.