Preserving The Past

It’s such a shame, you only wear it once, it seems such a waste.
The French silk hangs, once a pure virginal white,
now it’s silver, metallic, shimmering, faded.
The nervous young hand that sewed those fine stitches all those years ago,
is now bony and thin, claw-like, her face touched by time.
Thin, delicate silk glides cool, slippery, noiselessly over my fingers.
The feminine �" slightly musky- smell where her scent lingers is
enshrouded by the odour of mothballs and the attic where it was kept,
a fragrance which embodies feminine grace, strength and pride.
The embroidered leaves curl and climb the dress �"
a bright blue with a hint of green,
the outcome of dye �" attempting to revive the dress.
The failed result was shut away, storing the memories in an old travelling suitcase.
It’s such a shame, you only wear it once, it seems such a waste.