The sun dries the shallows of the blue carpet’s depths,
where light bleaches pale even the shortest of threads;
shadow and shade keep patches deep in dark blue,
yet rays from these windows drain most of the hue.
I remember that Axminster’s both hard wearing and soft,
but this one’s seen better days, and now the factory’s lost.
The carpet’s tired, worn, arguably time for replacing,
but I’m reluctant to part with this friend who is aging.
And in remembrance of ancestors’ work in old woolen mills,
I’ll not part with history produced from those Devonshire hills.
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