A Dedication to Fabric

By Ryan Vance


A squall of finches and owls or a mountain

insurmountable and sure,

or a prism against the fields,

a slice in the grass that turns the gorse

against itself, all light and terror?


No matter.

Your smock still sings of hard work,

tart with oil and sweat,

these folds and bulges familiar,

and the bunching of your skirt across your knees


friction in the face

of absent forces.


Under whipped cream and bruises,

the sky finally free to wear

its favourite party dress,

that lemon posset yellow cotton shirt hangs

like nothing else.


And I don’t doubt you have your reasons but even while you wrestle

that seagull,

your wellies reassure:


There’ll be no damp socks hung to dry on the rather large and unexplained alien scaffold tonight.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s