Gloves Copyright © Sally Warrell 2007

In winter
Gloves graced her outfit
Either worn or carried
Like a posy of fingers
In one hand

Gloves were her entrance cards
She was a member
Of the club

She belonged to the town
She knew what she owed
Respect was mutual
The town loved her back

Soft leather
Belied
Washing up hands
Thick cables of veins
Knotty joints
The years of rubbing fat into flour