the cables, ribs and herringbones
I could not see -
its lack of colour blinded me.
I put on layers
beneath its prickly wool,
but somehow bits still got through.
Eventually, I flung it it in a ditch,
unaware of how warm it had kept me
all through those uncomfortable years.
If you have any comments on this poem, Tristan Moss would
be pleased to hear from you.