Linen

From the heather‑scented fields where flax grows green,
the old‑world wind pulls the stalks till they bow, serene.
Farm hands twist the stiff strands into a silken line,
and the handloom hums, steady— a gentle rhythm, fine.

Linen whispers on a lace‑bordered night‑shirt’s fold,
soft as a distant memory, bright in golden bold.
It clings to the waistline of a summer sailor’s coat,
and to the sheets that keep the bedroom quiet, afloat.

In London’s cosy parlours, the curtains billow, fine,
their weight a hush upon the parlour in the shine.
A linen dish‑cloth, a simple, faithful friend,
keeps the kitchen tidy, fits sticky mende?

The tailor’s cutting board, the dresser’s measured creed,
all speak of linen’s loyalty, its quiet breed.
So here I lay my thoughts upon a stretch of the soft earth,
kingdom of fibre, born of patience and of birth.