Stella Davies
Dress, brown velvet
At the time I was unaccustomed
to generous gestures of love. True
it was a wonderful dress: once seen,
the only dress in town. It fell
like velvet water from my shoulders,
billowed in sleeves and skirts, its colour
just a russet shade lighter
than my flowing hair. True
it was the very dress for me.
But more than your week’s wages?
More than all your bills, and almost
as much as your debts? I don’t remember
how long I demurred, laid tentative hands
on lesser garments, shook my head.
I know we left the shop, and sat
over halves of Guinness, talked of other things;
and I know it was you who said
We have to buy it
and took me back,
and hooked it down,
and paid.
I was not used
to loving generosity, and I confess
it took me years, to learn it.
But you were right to wait; and right
about the dress, which visited
parties beyond numbering, always
envied, discussed, admired:
Who had designed it, how and where
could I have had the luck to find
something so perfect?
And as I wriggle into it, this Christmas,
thirty years on its lines still faultless,
its lovely sheen undimmed, although
I’m growing old, my bright hair fading,
it seems to me miraculous
that you, back then, absurdly young,
not only knew its worth, but trusted
against all probability
that it would last.
to generous gestures of love. True
it was a wonderful dress: once seen,
the only dress in town. It fell
like velvet water from my shoulders,
billowed in sleeves and skirts, its colour
just a russet shade lighter
than my flowing hair. True
it was the very dress for me.
But more than your week’s wages?
More than all your bills, and almost
as much as your debts? I don’t remember
how long I demurred, laid tentative hands
on lesser garments, shook my head.
I know we left the shop, and sat
over halves of Guinness, talked of other things;
and I know it was you who said
We have to buy it
and took me back,
and hooked it down,
and paid.
I was not used
to loving generosity, and I confess
it took me years, to learn it.
But you were right to wait; and right
about the dress, which visited
parties beyond numbering, always
envied, discussed, admired:
Who had designed it, how and where
could I have had the luck to find
something so perfect?
And as I wriggle into it, this Christmas,
thirty years on its lines still faultless,
its lovely sheen undimmed, although
I’m growing old, my bright hair fading,
it seems to me miraculous
that you, back then, absurdly young,
not only knew its worth, but trusted
against all probability
that it would last.
Page(s) 28
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