if the dress

The busy tailor, and the hard-working seamstress, too hot for May, whispers '…hear your woman is wearing her sarong? ...say they saw her dance flamenco in the square, say she was a diamond kite in the night sky too…seen your woman rough diamond the clouds?…say she laughs in the streets every day a painting – and say it’s scandalous; there were photographs...’ The tailor looks up and smiles, ‘I hear my woman is wearing her sarong like a kite, dancing at the beach in the moonlight while I am working on the ribbons and frays’ and the seamstress blushes by the window embroidering the sash with petals, ‘yes…yes…I’m listening out for her too…’ laying her template on the cloth, no straight lines to cut - ‘if the dress’ she said, the afternoon she wore her sarong to the beach.