Her fingers work like dancers over yards of fabric

Patterned with those little flowers, pink and blue.

The sewing machine buzzes with the cold activity

Of a room that’s pale in winter sun, and yet

There’s sprinkles of the brightest colour,

Fabric swatches and those mannequins, draped and swathed

With toile and satin dyed in beauty, orange burnt

To something warm, in a room so white it hurts

To stare too long at freezing walls.

But as she works, the garment starts to shape,

Bending to her will, the skirts flare out

And she can picture twirling it, on a carpet

Scarlet with the cameras flashing, begging for

A shot of her. Who’s she wearing? they will shout

And she will blush and say it’s hers.

When it’s done she slides it on, her porcelain skin

And bright red lips curl into a smile,

An angel in her little heaven, soon to spread

Her devil wings, and venture out to turn some heads.