Berwick Street

I’m still pondering colour and although I wrote this a while ago, it continues the theme……

 

Berwick Street

 

To Soho we went

that damp Saturday, flat London drizzle misting our faces,

silver-gilding our hair.

You, small girl, fat hand in mine.

To the fabric shop, to the one that smells of incense and old wood

a smell of somewhere not England.

I pushed open the door.

Your chatter stopped and you loosened your hand,

drawn to the  bolts of cloth, to the clashing colour dyed in Indian heat,

printed on ancient tables

by filigree henna-ed hands: deft, precise.

Could you see them? The women near the mango tree in the courtyard?

Pinning out cloth to dry in the hum of the sun,

murmuring their soft song language.

It came to Berwick Street tight-folded and wrapped in ordinary brown paper

then stacked bolt on bolt

and we smoothed our hands across its cockerel colours:

hot pink, scarlet, turmeric gold,

tracing the patterns with our fingers.

 

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6 Comments

Filed under oddbods, poetry

6 responses to “Berwick Street

  1. Rachael

    I can see you both Claire. What lovely pictures you paint!
    Looking forward to reading more
    Rachael x

  2. Fabulous. I can see them near the mango tree. So vivid. Jx

  3. Reblogged this on ladygolfcaptain and commented:
    Not on the theme of golf at all – but beautiful all the same, here’s a extract from my poetic seamstress friend’s blog. She and I were at school together. She’s always made frocks, done gardening and had great style.

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