Today’s exercise is to write a poem about clothes. But not just any clothes: oh no. These are fancy clothes. Posh clothes. The sort of things you might wear if you were planning to be … dressed up to the nines …
(Sorry.)
(Well, no. Not really.)
Ahem. Clothes. Specifically, the secret life of an item of clothing that only gets worn very occasionally. A tuxedo, perhaps, or a ballgown. A wedding dress. Academic robes. A full military dress uniform. A christening gown. Something that only gets to come out for big events.
How would it feel, to be that piece of clothing? Is it happy to only be worn occasionally? Or sad, because it hardly ever gets out? Does it understand the emotions of the person wearing it? Is it aware of the person at all? How does human feel to it? (We talk about things like the touch of silk or the smell of leather – what might the feel of hair, or the odour of skin be like to it? If it could speak, what would it say?
A Dark Feathered Art 