My favourite part of a blanket would have to be the satin along the edges. These cushions celebrate blanket ribbon in all it's hues and leave the satin edge free for little hands to explore.

Growing up, we only slept with blankets when were at my grandparents. There is a certain security in going to sleep with the satin edges clutched between fingers.  For me, it means that, even though I'm away from home, I've been tucked in by someone who cares.

These cushions are made out of a collection of blanket samples for Onehunga Woollen Mills.  Each came with its name written on a small adhesive label.  In stops and starts I have been sewing the name of each colour onto it's respective sample since 2010.  We have everything from the blues of  seascape and navy, to the very pale whites of natural and eggshell.

And as an added bonus, they are nice to snuggle up with too.

This weeks thrifty find isn't mine.  It's my daughter's.  She spotted the little pirate toby mug and exclaimed "just like Mum's!".

The shopkeeper carefully wrapped it for her and added "It's always good to have collections," before handing it to my beaming 6 year old.

Their providence is nothing exceptional.  A simple "Japan" back stamp. They both have little chips.  However, they make me smile and they make my daughter beam.

*Linking in with Op Shop Show Off

Spring comes at the other end of the year in New Zealand, but it is celebrated just the same.  We could lay claim to fields of Wordsworth's daffodils.  But we often forget have our own poetry too.  What better way to celebrate a spring in full flight, than with a little Baxter, wrapped around a teacup.

Blow Wind of Fruitfulness

Blow, wind of fruitfulness,
 Blow from the buried sun:
Blow from the buried kingdom
 Where heart and mind are one.

Blow, wind of fruitfulness,
 The murmuring leavers remember;
For the deep in doorless rock
 Awaits their green September .


Blow from the wells of night:
 The blind flower breathes thy coming
Birds that are silent now
 And buds of barren springing.

Blow from beyond our day.
 The hill-borne streams complain:
Hear from their stony courses
 The great sea rise again.

Blow on the mouth of morning
 Renew the single eye:
And from remembered darkness
 our immortality.

James K. Baxter