Skirt

In the hush of twilight, a skirt sways—
A whisper of cloth, a modest grace,
Its hem dancing lightly over cobblestones,
Like a shy smile caught in autumn’s lace.

Cotton, wool, or silken thread,
It tells a tale of seasons past,
From schoolgirl pleats to evening’s flare,
Each fold a memory that will last.

British rain may patter down,
Yet the skirt stands firm, unbowed,
A modest banner, humble pride,
Wrapped round the legs of every crowd.

So here’s to skirts, in every shade,
From tartan checks to plainest grey,
They move with us through street and lane,
In quiet style, come what may.