A DOMESTIC cameo from Sheena Blackhall's latest pamphlet, The Housewife's Dream:

Poems and Tales in Scots and English (Lochlands, £3).

THE MIGRATION OF MOTHER'S CLOTHES

Every spring my mother's winter clothes

Began their migration to the loft

Her leather gloves,

Like dead swifts' folded wings

Were laid to rest in the press

Her fur lined boots

Like skinned caribou calves

Trekked to the attic floor

Her hats of astrakhan and musquash trim

Were borne up the chilly stairs to their Arctic mausoleum

Her mink coat huddled with its wool and tweedy brethren

In the gloomy entombment of the wardrobe.

Up there in the dark, they were wiped from the mind's slate

The fickle body forgot them

Turned to the breezy pleasures of linen, cotton, nylon, polyester

Up there in the dark, they sulked through summer in shadow

Breathed in mothballs like Lazarus, awaiting resurrection