Satin

Satin slips like whispered sighs,
A smooth, moon‑lit river flowing through the night,
Its glossy surface catching light—
A soft, cool caress that clings, then flies.

In drawing rooms of velvet hush,
Where candle‑flames dare not to flare,
Satin drapes in regal care,
A quiet promise of plush crush.

The seamstress hums a low, content tune,
Threading needles through its gleam,
Turning humble cotton’s seam
Into midnight’s silvery moon.

Oh, satin—sleek, serene, sublime—
You weave elegance into every seam,
A timeless whisper, a lingering dream,
In Britain’s halls, you stand the test of time.