Strong winds blew in today.
They tore my wardrobe doors open
and a whirlwind plucked at the hangers
and strew my clothes across the floor.
Holey jumpers, ill-advised buys,
shrunken and marked garments,
the faded, torn and aged
the unworn and the forlorn,
all in a storm
bundled and crammed into
waiting charity bags,
and before there was any chance of
swept out of the house
never to be seen again.
A few things escaped the maelstrom
and as the winds died down,
looked, even, slightly refreshed;
ready for their moment in the sun.
A gale forced decision was made,
as I once again struggled to find anything to wear
in a wardrobe full of clothes.
I am a reluctant shopper,
with a hard-to-dress lifestyle
in a hard-to-place age group.
This morning I recognised the truth
of the well meant advice:
that if you haven't worn it for a year
(or in my case more likely ten years)
you aren't going to wear it today or any other day.
It masquerades as a real outfit,
freighted with unhelpful reasons for a reprieve,
such as Wasteful, Will fit one day,
Worn once, Well loved but worn out.
My wardrobe is purged
but there is another cupboard that holds tightly
things I know full well I will never wear again:
my wedding dress, my back to work jacket size 8,
my vintage dresses, my Liberty rose shirt,
my Chinese silk jacket from Art College,
an Indian sari coat,
a velvet evening cloak,
my school Panama hat.
It would take a hurricane to empty that
and no hurricanes have been forecast.