True Vintage

Granny was so particular about her things,
dresses hung with tissue and pomanders, housed
them in closeted cedar, sanded annually,
to discourage moths and to release
the story of a tree whose body was shaped
to fit the nook of her chimney-breasted room.

When she died, there was no body
to look after her things, so her space
was cleared.

Men came, overalled and gloved
with gaping black bags, mouths hungry
to swallow St Michael, Norman Harntell
and Selfridges, all pristine, as if they
had only just alighted, paper birds,
chosen, saved for, sent for, nearly
seventy-five years ago.

White vanned to another place,
turned and fingered, hung together
for the last time; true vintage,
on a charity shop rail, Granny’s garments
are now for sale.