For decades it must have hung -
this last relic of her vanity -
like an unwanted rescue dog
in her wardrobe's mothballed cave.
Room to breathe, the Danish furrier had said.
Burlesquely I wrap myself in its embrace;
feel an almost living warmth; dark hint
of an Arctic summer running through
the narrow head and back.
A stale whisper of its perfumed history
returning her in Kodak colour,
sipping Fernet Branca on Alpine terraces
or promenading Cunard decks. Mouth full-blown
with Victory Red; amber eyes like set traps.
If you have any comments on this poem, Stephen Bone would be
pleased to hear from you.