These were the clothes that once took my shape
That creased as I do at elbow and knee,
That covered me from ankle to my nape,
Were frayed and worn in places just like me.
These were the clothes in wardrobe and in drawer
That coloured my life in flowers and checks,
Sometimes strewn, a crime-scene, on bedroom floor,
Their limbs outflung as if in death or sex.
And now they’re gathered up in plastic bags,
Piled up ready to be taken elsewhere,
A sleeve trails out, as if it sadly lags,
Grazing me with an unexpected fear.
What if when these garments are gone at last,
I mourn those faded textures of my past?
© James Nash 2010