by Nick Gisburne
Each perfect piece of linen is unique
The lines are sharp and measured, clean, precise
He works with fearless focus, trained technique
The smallest fold or flaw will not suffice
With passion and the subtle skills of art
His needle pulls the pieces into place
The stitches match the motion of a heart
Above, below, a slow and patient pace
And when at last the light begins to fade
He nods, as if to bid a fond farewell
Tomorrow, she who wears the dress he made
Will rest beneath the tolling of a bell
Her mother gives a rare and precious prize
She thanks him for the perfect dress, and cries
