The dress was blue and never aged.
She dropped it on and felt its cool
The same as on the autumn day
She bought the dress, without his say,
Her week revolved around these streets:
Her home, her walk, her week of work,
The wall which held a wagtail’s nest,
The ruts on pavements, worn by years.
She passed his parent’s former house:
The new folk kept the garden neat.
She passed the chapel, then the pub.
She felt the village watch her walk.
He never said he liked the dress:
Or if he did, she didn’t hear.