Dowdy

Dowdy

In a small terraced flat on a drizzling afternoon,
She hangs a cardigan, its wool a muted grey,
Buttons missing, seams frayed – the very picture of dowdy,
Yet it bears the scent of lavender from her mother’s drawer.

The kettle whistles, steam curls like shy apology,
She sips tea from a chipped mug, the handle warm in her palm,
Outside, the London traffic hums a lorried lullaby,
While pigeons peck at crumbs on the cracked pavement.

Her thoughts drift to the market stalls of bygone years,
Where bold colours strutted in silk and satin gleam,
Now she finds comfort in the quiet, the unassuming,
A dowdy grace that whispers strength in subdued seams.

So let the world chase flash and neon flare,
She walks her own soft path, cardigan buttoned tight,
Finding beauty in the modest, the plain, the true,
In the quiet dignity of being simply, wonderfully dowdy.