Pleat

In the quiet drawer of linen,
a pleat whispers, folded tight,
like a secret kept in cotton,
a crease that holds the light.

It walks the hem of a skirt,
sharp as a Sunday train,
pressing order into cloth,
turning chaos into plain.

When the wind lifts the fabric,
the pleat sings a soft refrain,
a ripple of restrained grace,
echoing Britain’s calm domain.