Hand-woven from the Donegal wool of bog-soaked
sheep, your coat exudes its tailoring, yet we
wouldn’t know that blackberries and fuchsias have
coloured other refinements: this coat has its
gorse-and-moss dye toned to a muesli elegance, the
flecks as goosebumps of alabaster and mahogany.
Hands in pockets angled by the measure of protractors,
you could be Royal – how the sartorial cuts us out and
above others it would seem in all those looks by
people in these streets from this darker city. Poverty
wears its heart on cheaper materials. But at different
times, their painted faces and dressing up is another
aspiration to rise over the playing fields of greed,
like a coat over a hard life in its deceptive tweed.