Your dress

Your favourite dress hangs on the clothes line

In your garden.

You washed it then

rung it out to dry

Before suspending it in the light

Of a warm Italian morning sun.

The chickens are pecking at the ground,

While your small white dog

Sleeps curled up

At your feet.

Your cotton dress

With the midnight poka dots

Seems to float in the air.

You have worn this dress more

Than a dozen times.

Your feet ache from all the times you have danced in this dress.

Those late nights you snuck out of your house with your sisters

Walking for miles

Before reaching the dance hall.

Returning home in the early hours

With your shoes in your hand,

Tiptoeing into bed,

Still in your dress.

How quickly the sun

Dries the  fabric.

You hold it up to your face;

It is warm and smooth and

Smells of camphor

And

A hint of lemon.

J. Hamilton

 

 

 

 

 

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